


Intermezzo in E-minor

by ATONAU



Series: The Compositions [2]
Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATONAU/pseuds/ATONAU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to 'Prelude in C', featuring scenes from Esme's  human life, starting in 1904. Canon prequel. Best read with 'Prelude in C'. Some chapters will involve dark, mature themes, including verbal, physical, and sexual abuse, dubious consent, discussions of rape, and suicide.  Esme's human life is tragic; please heed warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1904

**Author's Note:**

> Esme was born in 1895, so in the first chapter, taking place in 1904, she is nine years old…

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I smoothed creases from the brown paper that Nana’s package had been wrapped in, spreading it on the kitchen table.  She had sent treasures from Pennsylvania, mostly for Mama, but also a few for me.  The best by far was a set of wax crayons in eight colors.  They didn’t smudge like chalk, and it was easier to make a clean line with them than with paints, though you couldn’t blend the colors well, like you could with watercolors.  But then, you didn’t have to wait for them to dry, either.  I loved them, and I’d been trying to use them just a little at a time.  I wanted to save them, but this piece of paper was calling to me.  It was rough, with bumps and lines.  It felt like an old friend.

“Are you sure, Mama?  You won’t need it?”

“You go ahead, Esme,” she said from the kitchen counter, where she was mixing flour and butter.  “Make some art with it.  Nana would want you to.  Do you have any ideas for it?”

“Yes…”  Part of me didn’t want to make this drawing; I would end up using the entire blue crayon.  Maybe if I sent her the picture, Nana would be willing to send more…

I raised my face up to the ceiling, closing my eyes.  I remembered the crisp air on my skin, the way the shadows played across my eyelids when the wind blew… how the blue blazed and pierced my eyes with its pure hue when I opened them. 

I took my blue crayon and started with the largest triangles first.  Long narrow ones at the sides.  In the upper half of the page I started drawing a mess of different shapes: narrow slivers and wide triangles, even the odd parallelogram and trapezoid.  I turned the crayon, keeping the tip sharp so I could make the corners of my shapes clean.  As I moved toward the edges, the triangles grew closer together, with only narrow bands of brown separating them.  It was shaping up.  I could see the form emerging from the paper.

“What are you drawing, Esme?” Mama asked as she rolled the dough. 

“Something I saw near the hay field last week,” I answered.  “It was so beautiful.”

She glanced at me, and then looked at the paper, puzzled by the blue shapes.  “Was it water?”

“No, Mama.”

She tilted her head as she studied it.  “Did someone break some glass?”

I giggled.  “No, Mama.  You’ll see.”

We worked together comfortably, Mama making her pies and loaves, and I drawing my shapes, until lunchtime.   

Papa came in just as Mama was setting the noon meal on the table.  His boots were dirty and tracked in mud. 

“Esme, what are you doing?  Why aren’t you helping your mother?”

I froze, looking at Mama.

“I told her it was okay,” Mama said, quickly serving some biscuits and placing a bowl of chicken soup in front of him as he sat down.  “My mother had included a note in the package she sent, asking Esme for an original drawing made with her new art supplies.  She wanted to know that Esme was using her gifts.”

He grunted, grabbing a biscuit and breaking it into his soup.  “You shouldn’t encourage this, Evelyn.  She should be learning from you at this point.  How to make bread, how to make supper.  You’re not doing her any favors letting her draw or wander though the orchard all day.  She should be learning skills, doing chores.  Not wasting time and money on frivolous hobbies.”

I looked back and forth between them as silence fell.   “I did my chores this morning, Papa,” I said in a small voice. 

He harrumphed as he continued chewing.  We ate in silence for several minutes, his eyes moving occasionally to my unfinished drawing.  He was trying not to be curious.  Finally, he asked, “What are you drawing, anyway?”

I didn’t think he would want to guess like Mama did.  “A tree, Papa.”

He gaped at me, and then laughed.  “Esme, with all the time you’d spent messing around in them, I’d have thought you’d known that trees were brown, not blue.”  He threw his napkin on the table, got up, and left the house, muttering under his breath.

The easy mood Mama and I had enjoyed all morning collapsed in on itself.  We both sat in silence for a moment, staring at the center of the table.  Her shoulders were hunched and a veil clouded her eyes.  She look defeated…the same way I felt. 

I knew he was right.  Mama needed help, and while drawing was important to do, it wasn’t important to do this very minute.  I’d been selfish, letting her work alone.  She always worked so hard.  Papa, too, for that matter.  I’d been lucky that they let me be outdoors so much, appreciating the beauty to be found on our farm: the green light coming though the orchard leaves when they were new and translucent chartreuse; the constantly changing patterns of waves the wheat made when the wind blew, shadows and light dancing across the golden stems.  And the amazing architecture of my tree — the giant old elm in the middle of the hay field.  It was glorious… a tangled mess of branches reaching and weaving through each other like an intricate puzzle.  It was my favorite.  So old, but new every spring. So strong, but delicate at its edges with fragile stems and leaves.  So grounded, its roots buried deep in the moist fragrant earth, yet always reaching to the stars. 

It was hard to remember that sweeping was important as well.

Tears welled in my eyes as I glanced up at my mother.  She looked pale.  She didn’t always sleep well.  She often stayed up late working after Papa went to bed.  As much as I hated to admit it, Papa was right.  I needed to do more to help.  I looked at my drawing and it seemed very unimportant.  Silly even.  I sniffled as I reached for Papa’s bowl to clear it to the sink.  Mama looked up abruptly, and suddenly her eyes were shining…fierce.

“Esme?”

I couldn’t answer.  I knew that if I tried to talk, I’d cry, and that would just make things worse.  She read my silence correctly and held out her arm to me.

“Come here, child.”  Her eyes were full of sympathy, and she wiped her cheeks as I got up and allowed myself to be folded into a one-armed embrace, standing next to her as she remained in her chair.  She pulled me into her side and I melted against her, feeling her affection seep into me.   It warmed me like the sun.

“Esme Anne Platt, don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”  She pulled my head towards hers and planted a quick kiss on my temple.   “This was _my_ fault, not yours.  I suggested you draw instead of help.  Anyway, it’s important to let Nana know we appreciate her gifts.  You can help me make the meatloaf tonight, after you’re finished with it.  Now,” she said, reaching across the table for my drawing, “why don’t you show me what you have so far?”

She studied the drawing, and I watched her face.  She wasn’t seeing it. She was focusing on the blue shapes, but that’s not where the tree was.  She raised her gaze to me, and I saw the confusion and disappointment in her eyes.  She _wanted_ to see it; she just needed help.   

“If you sit under the big elm, with your back against the trunk, and you look straight up, this is what you see.”

She looked doubtful, but studied the drawing again, tilting her head.

“Oh, I know what will help.”  I took a brown crayon and started drawing lines connecting some of the triangles along the sides that were lined up with each other.  Some outlines were interrupted where they met with other perpendicular spaces.  Soon the brown spaces between the blue shapes appeared to be long, interwoven boughs emanating from a broad trunk.  I heard her gasp as she finally saw it.

“The tree is the paper?  The brown paper?  And the blue is…”

“The sky,” I finished for her, straightening up and giving her a smile.

She shook her head slightly.  “Amazing.  What made you think to do it like this?  Most people would draw the tree from a distance.  And they’d…well, they’d draw the tree…”

I shrugged.  “I know that tree better up close.  And the paper’s rough…it already feels like tree bark.  It made more sense to use it than cover it over.  Though I think I need to do some shading where the branches cross,” I said, tilting my head to get a better look at the picture.  I smiled at the limbs.  They really did look just like that elm.  I leaned into Mama and whispered, “Someday, when I’m older, I’m going to climb all the way to the top of that elm.  I bet I’ll be able to see for miles from up there.”

“I’ll bet you’re right,” she said, giving me a squeeze.  She was still studying the drawing, and her face grew wistful…like she wanted to climb that tree herself.  “I still can’t believe you made a tree by drawing… nothing all around it.”

“Mama!  That’s not nothing,” I said, scandalized.  “That blue sky peeking through the branches…that’s where all the possibilities lie.”

  
  


_AN:  Crayola started producing boxes of children’s wax crayons in 1903 from their mill in Pennsylvania.  They were an immediate success._

_Thanks to StormDragonfly for being kind enough to beta this, and helping me keep Esme’s voice child-like._


	2. 1911

 

 

Columbus Ohio, 1911

"Esme, when are you going to grow up? You can't go doing the things you did when you were ten. It reflects badly on you, and on the respectability of our family. And now I've had to waste half a day bringing you here when I should be working. And all for what?"

Father's complaints were cut short by the doctor coming in, reading a chart. He acted oblivious of what he was interrupting, but something in the set of his jaw told me he was perfectly aware of the conversation, and didn't approve. All tension eased from his face, however, when he looked up from his chart and smiled at me.

"Miss Esme Platt?"

I nodded, a bit stunned. His eyes were gold. Warm, and caring, and… gold.

"I'm Dr. Cullen. I've been told you've had a fall, and I need to examine a potential fracture in your tibia." He put down the chart. "May I?"

He paused before reaching for my obviously broken leg. I just nodded, watching his face as his hands began gently moving up my exposed shin, feeling for the break. It felt strange to be touched by another person on my bare skin, just as it had been when the nurses had cut away my stockings to get a clear view of my injuries. I stiffened, trying to make sense of the conflicting sensations: his cold hands were clinical yet gentle, almost caring. His eyes were focused on my leg, but I had the distinct impression that his mind was alert to a great number of things. I suddenly hissed in pain, and tears started streaming silently down my face again.

"And from what did you fall, Miss Esme, if you don't mind me asking?"

He was just trying to distract me, but I welcomed the excuse to think of something other than the pain. I still felt a bit bewildered, like a bird that ran into a window, and found itself on the ground shaking it's head, wondering how the air had gotten so hard all of a sudden.

"A tree, doctor."

His lips twitched. "Indeed? And how tall was your tree, Miss Esme?" He made a notation on my chart, and then felt a different bone in my calf.

"Tall enough that she broke her leg when she slipped and fell," my father interjected. "She had no business being in that tree at her age. This serves her right." Dr. Cullen's hands stilled on my leg for the barest fraction of a second and then continued.

"Mr. Platt, I believe if you go out to the nurse's station, you'll find that there is some paperwork you need to fill out." I looked away so my father wouldn't see my amusement that he'd been dismissed. He mumbled something and left the room.

I looked at the doctor's face as he studied my leg. He didn't look up at me, but I noticed just the barest hint of a dimple. He was pleased with himself. I wiped my cheeks, and he went over to the sink, wetted a small towel and handed it to me. I washed my tears away with it, and felt better.

"Miss Esme, I'm going to x-ray this leg, just to be certain there's only the one break, and then I'm going to set it. Do you understand what that means?"

I looked straight into his eyes. "You have to make it hurt more before you can make it feel better."

He chuckled. "Yes, that's the salient point. I need you to hold very still for the x-ray. Can you do that?"

I raised my chin a bit in challenge. "Of course."

"All right then," he said. He rolled what looked like a perfectly vertical easel to the far side of the bed. "Just lower your other leg over the side of the bed, please. We don't want it in the picture." I adjusted my position, awkward as it was, and he slipped a rectangular piece of film into a thin metal box and slid it into clamps on the easel. He continued arranging the film holder and my leg until he was satisfied, and then walked to the other side of the room, where a large metal box with dials and switches stood. He made several adjustments to that as well, making sure that my leg was directly between the box and the film. Finally, he looked up at me to see that I was ready, and put his finger on a switch. "Be very still. One, two…" _click._

He came back and removed the thin rectangular box from its holder, opened the door of the examination room and handed it to a nurse. He came back to sit beside me, smiling.

"And now we wait," he said, his eyes kind. But there was a trace of something I didn't understand. Regret? Sadness? "And what drew you to climb a tree during a rainstorm?" Genuine curiosity colored his eyes now.

"I didn't climb it during the storm; I climbed it to watch the storm approach," I corrected. He raised an eyebrow. "The clouds were purple. Have you ever seen purple clouds, Doctor? Not lavender-gray, but real purple?"

He looked taken aback. "Yes, I have."

"Well, I'd never seen them like that. They were purple, and heavy, and…I don't know, muscular. It was like, the wind wasn't blowing them, _they_ were making the wind. I had to get closer. I had to really _see_ it. Feel the breath of those clouds. You just can't see something like that properly from the ground. And anyway," I added as an afterthought, "that tree needs me in it."

"It needs you? Does it have feelings?" He was amused, but he meant it kindly.

"I don't know about that. It just has this space…it's out of balance. Maybe a limb is missing. But when I'm sitting in that spot, it's perfect. I can see it in my mind, and it's perfect."

He studied my face. "Are you an artist? A sculptor?"

I shrugged. "I'm just a farmer's daughter. But I see the shape of things, and the spaces they make between them, and the hidden shapes. Maybe I think like a sculptor. You, for instance. Your eyes are warm and kind, but they hold secret shapes, I think."

His expression grew shocked. "What secret shapes?" he whispered.

"Well, I don't know," I said, smirking, and leaning into him conspiratorially, "they're secret." My smile left me, and I tilted my head as I studied him more. "But if I had to guess, I'd say… weariness, and a touch of sadness."

His eyes grew impossibly wider, and his face lost whatever shielding he normally used. I saw him clearly, and the secret shapes weren't as hidden as they had been. "I'm sorry you've been sad," I added.

He shook his head slowly in disbelief, and then jumped at the knock on the door. The nurse opened it and handed him a square piece of film, which he held up to the light. When he looked back at me, his doctor mask had fallen across his face again. He smiled sympathetically.

"It's time. Are you ready?" I took a deep breath and nodded. He locked his eyes on mine, and grasped my ankle and my knee. "I'm very sorry I have to cause you this pain. I wish it weren't the case."

I nodded, bracing myself. He yanked, and I yelped, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. More tears flowed down my cheeks.

"There, there, Esme, don't do that," he said softly, wiping the blood off my lower lip with his cool thumb. He stepped back, as if suddenly realizing how close he was standing, and handed me the wet cloth again. I wiped the tears and blood from my face, and handed it back to him. He slipped it into his pocket while continuing, "I'm going to wipe your leg down with alcohol now, to make sure the abrasions are clean, and then I'll wrap it and plaster it. The worst is over," he said gently.

I nodded, and he began his work. His hands and the alcohol were cold, sending shivers along my spine as he rubbed my leg with soaked cotton balls: stroke after stroke, from my upper thigh down to my toes, changing to fresh cotton and alcohol with each stroke. It was almost mesmerizing, the rhythm of it. And the leg _did_ feel better; it was such a relief that I felt almost jubilant. I would be showing more joy if I weren't so focused on his movements, the tingling on my skin in the wake of the alcohol-soaked cotton.

"Have you always wanted to be a doctor?" I blurted out, again needing some kind of distraction.

The motion of the cotton froze just below my knee, and his golden eyes met mine obliquely through his lashes: I read wariness.

"I beg your pardon?"

I cleared my throat and straightened my back. "Doctor Cullen, I was wondering if you always knew you wanted to be a doctor."

His eyes returned to my leg and the cotton began moving again as he tilted his head, considering my question. His answer came slowly, as if he were measuring his response.

"I've wanted to be a physician for almost as long as I can remember."

I nodded, shivering slightly as the cool alcohol made another pass along my skin.

"What's your favorite part?"

He looked up again, but he was more comfortable this time. His eyes were curious — curious about my curiosity. And there was something else. A decision. His hands continued their work.

"Knowing that I'm helping people. That perhaps, because of my work, a person is spared some pain or tragedy, and is more capable of living a happy, fulfilled life."

"It's not the challenge? Solving puzzles? Not that this one was particularly difficult," I added, motioning to my leg dismissively.

He looked into my face again while holding my foot aloft several inches by the heel. His eyes were studying me, and there was humor and surprise along with a touch of conspiracy.

"I like the challenge, too," he admitted, his dimple showing. "But there are many challenging pursuits in life, and I don't think I would find any others quite so fulfilling."

He finished cleaning my leg, examining it briefly and reaching for a roll of cloth on the table behind him. Then he wrapped it in gauze, his hands impossibly gentle as he raised my leg over and over to pass the wrap under it.

"What of you, Miss Esme? What do you plan for yourself? Will you become an artist? A sculptor? Or something that takes advantage of your affinity for climbing…perhaps a high wire performer at a circus?"

I shook my head, surprised and amused that he would tease me. But the question was too serious to ignore. I frowned. I'd been told so long that I'd be a wife, it didn't seem that there was room for anything else. Seeing the world through an artist's eye was an integral part of me, but _doing_ art? It seemed ridiculous.

"I don't think people from Ohio get to be artists."

Our eyes met again, his distressed and a bit pained. He took a moment to weigh his thoughts.

"Don't sell yourself short, Esme," he finally said softly. "The world is a big place, with amazing potential for someone with an eye for its wonder. A small town in, say, Italy, may seem exotic to us, but to the people who live there, it feels as provincial as your town feels to you. Art can come from anywhere, when there is someone willing to see past the mundane for the beauty beneath."

His eyes bore into mine, the weight of his message making the gold shimmer and flash. But how could he know such things? He was a doctor in Columbus, Ohio, for goodness sakes; what did he know of Italy?

And yet… oh, the idea that there was potential for my life beyond what was being planned by the grownups all around me… _that_ was a captivating thought.

And more than even that — more important than anything I'd felt in a long time — was the feeling of _really_ being seen. The way I see people. This doctor saw me, and wasn't frightened that I saw him. It made me almost giddy. When I raised my eyes to his again, he nodded, as if we'd come to an understanding.

We fell into silence as he prepared the plaster and began spreading it over the gauze. The air felt thick and expectant. His eyes were focused on my leg, but he was clearly aware of everything, occasionally glancing to my face so quickly I thought I'd dreamt it. When he finished, he sat back and looked at me. The plaster was already stiffening; our time together was coming to an end, putting a damper on the agitation deep in the corners of my mind.

Nodding toward the leg, he asked, "Was it worth it?" His eyes were curious again, and again there was something else. A new shape. Something fiery and slippery.

I tilted my head in thought. I remembered the feeling of being on the precipice… feeling the wind whip my hair and wrap around me, like it was leading me somewhere. Like those purple clouds had other ideas for me, beyond the provincial life my father was planning. The life the clouds imagined would not be tedious, or full of the facades of country life. It would be a life in which seeing secret shapes would be a good thing, and not a disappointment. A life in which focusing on beauty and love would be rewarded. The purple clouds were bringing a change; I could feel it, and it was big. The pain was worth that feeling, especially considering where it led me…

I looked into the doctor's golden eyes, which were studying me intently. The barest hint of a smile made them shine expectantly… almost affectionately. His face was somewhere between the doctor's mask and the completely exposed expression I'd seen earlier. And I recognized that new shape in his eyes… it was hope.

"Completely."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is: their first meeting, so often alluded to in Prelude (Chapters 17, 18, and 22 for starters). The next chapter will be a jump to an adult Esme.


	3. August 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references physical abuse. Please heed warnings.

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I trudged through the damp shadows and mud down the familiar road. In some ways, it felt like no time had passed since the last time I walked alone down this lane. I'd traveled it so many times over the years, with so many memories blending together, that it almost seemed like the last several months hadn't been real. As the familiar house came into view, dark and shrouded by filmy sheets of rain, I could almost imagine that it had all been some swirling surreal dream that would fade in the bright light of daybreak and evaporate away like a morning mist, leaving me a carefree maiden.

The rain fell harder, pelting my shoulders and face, making me wince. Even that slight touch was agonizing against my bruises. Clearly, the last few months _had_ happened.

I climbed the porch steps, relief and worry mingling in the pit of my stomach. I'd been so happy here…it seemed like years ago. My parents had been proud of me, and we'd all anticipated much joy. They'd been pleased with the match; pleased I was staying in town and not venturing to the western states alone as I'd proposed. They did not want their only daughter far away, living in rustic, perhaps unsafe conditions, and earning her own living as a schoolteacher. Father had actually been appalled at the idea, thinking it disgraced the family name and his own reputation to have a single young daughter traveling and living alone. No, they wanted me settled nearby, producing grandchildren, and visiting. Mama, particularly, wanted me to call on her. I couldn't fault them their wishes, and my heart had swelled with love for them, just knowing I was wanted. And I tried to please them. And in order to do so, I'd tried to please _him._ But there was no pleasing him….

The porch was dark, but comfortable in its familiarity. I knocked on the door, knowing I was waking them. I hoped any anger my father might have at being awakened would no longer be directed toward me when he saw my face. I gave a second knock. Then a third, and as I raised my hand again the door tore open, and I was greeted with a shotgun in my face. It was immediately lowered.

"Esme?"

"Papa!" My voice choked with relief. I studied his face, hoping for some of the warmth I'd seen last time I was home. "May I come in?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked with narrowing eyes. I pushed my shawl away from my face and heard my mother gasp from behind him. His eyes were wide, but still calculating.

"I want to come home."

He looked at me in silence for several moments. He seemed pained, and hope fluttered and sparked in my stomach. It was immediately doused. "You have a home. A nice home, Esme. Other women in town… they'd love to have such a nice home."

"They can have it," I said simply.

He grew frustrated. "You need to be a better wife, Esme. Not every man is as tolerant as I was when you were growing up. You need to learn your place. Keep the house; keep him happy. If you were doing that, I'm sure this wouldn't have happened."

I looked at him incredulously, tears welling in my eyes. "I've tried to make him happy! He finds fault no matter what I do. No matter how hard I try… You think this is my fault? The pot roast wasn't seasoned to his liking, and so he has the right to beat the crap out of me?"

"Watch your language, young lady!"

"Papa! Offensive language is nothing compared to the sins that _he_ has committed against me. This is not the first time. It started within the first two weeks. I can't… I can't live like this."

"You go home to your husband, and you be a good, obedient wife! There's no place for you here!"

I looked into his eyes, where a cold hard wall was forming. They'd never been particularly warm or kind, but the wall was new. It was formed of determination, but something else…something icy. Fear? Guilt?

"You knew," I gasped. "You knew he was like this when you agreed to the marriage."

"Don't be stupid, Esme. He's probably worried sick about you. He's probably out in the rain right now, looking for you. Go home."

I scoffed. "He's too _drunk_ to even realize I'm gone yet." I shook my head, disgusted by the sight before me. I'd always thought my father was strong, but he wasn't. He wasn't strong; he wasn't brave. He had to make this my fault, so it wouldn't be his. He had sacrificed me to get me out from underfoot.

"He's given you a good respectable home in town. A roof over your head, food on your plate. You'd best be going back to it." The guilt flickered more strongly in his eyes for a moment, but then it was veiled. "I'm going to bed." And I was dismissed. My vision blurred as tears flowed down my cheeks. I turned to go down the stairs.

"Esme, wait," my mother whispered.

She looked behind her as my father climbed the stairs, and then wrapped her shawl tightly around herself and step onto the porch. She approached me, her eyes full of concern, and brushed my hair back to get a better look at the bruise on my face. Her expression was worried and haggard.

"Come sit with me on the swing for a moment, child."

She led me to the porch swing, which was far enough under the awning that it was dry. I hesitated to sit, drenched as I was but she took my hand and pulled me down. I eased myself onto the cushion, wincing, and she stroked my hand in comfort.

"When did you last take some aspirin?" she whispered. "Can I get you some?"

That alone brought a sob from my throat. I was so unused to kindness, the slightest offer made me weak.

"That would be helpful… I haven't taken any," I answered shakily, wiping my cheeks and trying to steady my voice.

"Why ever not? You're obviously in pain."

"He…Charles, doesn't like it in the house. He says I need to feel my punishments."

Her eyes were wide as understanding came over her. "But can't you buy some when you're shopping and hide it?"

I shook my head. She had no idea how much control that man had over my every move. It seemed amazing that I'd sunk so low so quickly. Even my mother, who had been dominated her whole life, didn't understand my position.

"There's never enough… He knows what I'm shopping for, gives me just enough money, asks for the change. And he'd know. The shopkeeper would tell him, and then he'd…" There was no reason to finish the shameful sentence. She understood.

She stroked my hair and I willed myself not to cry again, not to sink into her touch. If I did, if I succumbed to the feeling of comfort, I might not be able to leave. And father had made it clear I couldn't stay.

"I wish I could keep you here," she started is a hoarse whisper.

"It's okay, Mama, it's not in your control."

"No," she agreed. "Not tonight, at least. I'll try to talk to him, but we need to come up with a plan for the immediate future. You stay here for a minute, okay?"

I nodded. I had no desire to go back yet anyway. Watching her go back through the door, closing it almost noiselessly behind her, I shivered violently. I wasn't sure if it was because I was drenched or alone again.

If I couldn't stay here, where else? Where else could I go? I sniffed and dried my eyes, wiling my eyes to dry. Crying didn't help. I wracked my brain, and then sat up straighter as I saw the screen door open again. Mama came out and sat back down, handing me a tin.

"Take this and hide it somewhere he won't look. Somewhere only you go."

"He goes everywhere!"

"The laundry? The kitchen? The root cellar?"

I froze. He didn't like the cellar. It was dark, cold. He thought it was beneath him.

"What's in it?" I asked quietly.

"Aspirin, and three dollars. I'm sorry that's all I could find. But look, it's so small. It will be easy to hide. And then take these."

She pushed wet sticks into my hand.

"You're giving me sticks? Do you want me to use them as switches on Charles?

"Hush! Don't be ridiculous!" Her harsh whisper cut through the darkness. "Those are willow cuttings. Plant them by the small pond behind your house. They'll grow fast, and the bark can be made into a tea that helps with the swelling. In case you run out of aspirin, and I can't get more to you right away."

I examined the cuttings. They had little roots on them. She'd had them in water, waiting for me… "Oh, Mama, you knew too?"

"I didn't hear anything until after the wedding… and I'd hoped it was wrong. I'm so sorry, Esme. We should have taken more care to find out about him, but we've known the family for ages..."

I couldn't look at her. I nodded, and the tears that had been threatening to spill again finally ran down my cheeks. "Papa?" I asked. She knew what I meant.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what he heard, or when. Go home, but take care of yourself. Try to keep him happy. Try to keep yourself safe. I'll work on Papa, and see if I can't get you things when you need them. I love you. We'll get through this. We'll figure out a way…"

"Evelyn!" Papa's voice carried down the stairs.

"I need to go inside," she said giving me a careful hug that only fed my need to be held properly. I sobbed as she pulled away. Then the door was shut, and I was alone on the dark porch. For several minutes I just stood crying, listening to the rain, and wishing that somehow all this water could drown me, or wash me away like watercolor paints…I wanted to melt, to bleed; I wanted my colors to run into the ground where they'd be protected. I wanted to be left without color or form…a gray wisp incapable of being harmed.

A flash of lightning startled me, and jolted me away from this line of thought. I wasn't invisible yet. He'd tried, but he hadn't made me fade from myself yet. But he would, if I let him. I couldn't go back yet. There had to be someplace else. I still had time. He'd be drunk for hours still… I needed to get back early enough to hide my new treasures, but there was time for one more attempt...

In the end, there was only one other place I could think to go. I drew my shawl up over my head again and ventured back into the rain. An hour later I was knocking on the door of the pastor who had married us, who had known me since I was a young girl. I prayed for some form of asylum.

"Coming!" I heard his gruff voice through the door. As the door swung open, he was still tying his robe. His kind, familiar face was immediately comforting.

"Esme? Excuse me… Mrs. Evenson? Please come in."

Relief flooded through me as I entered his small, well-lit entry and removed my rain-soaked shawl.

He gasped. "Esme! Your face! What… oh, dear God, not again. Did Charles…" his voice trailed off as he blanched.

I froze, and ice trailed down my spine. _Not again?_ No. It was not possible. Not the pastor, too.

"What did you know?" I whispered harshly.

He swallowed and a veil of guilt covered his eyes. "Will you come in and sit down?"

"No," I said slowly, "I don't believe I will. What did you know?"

"It is a private matter, I cannot divulge…"

"Pastor! I think it has become my business."

He looked at the ground. His hands were shaking. "Charles has often struggled in his life with violence…"

"Struggled with it?" I asked incredulously. "He doesn't struggle with it; he revels in it! You _knew_? You knew, and you let me marry him? Encouraged the match? Performed the ceremony?"

"He said he was better. He… he wanted my help. His spiritual life is my responsibility…"

" _My_ spiritual life is your responsibility, too!" Was I betrayed on every side? Tears ran down my cheeks with this new revelation. I felt myself shaking. There was nowhere I could go. No one I could trust. I had been pushed into a marriage to a man I'd been indifferent to, by men I'd trusted, and they'd _all_ betrayed me… sacrificed me for the benefit of themselves or their ideals. "I have to go," I said, putting my soaked shawl back over my hair.

"Will you not let me pray with you? We are told…"

"I do _not_ want to be told to turn the other cheek, Pastor Ames. Mine are both already bruised."

He balked at the force of my glare, swallowed and nodded, opening the door for me.

"I'll see you on Sunday, Esme."

"No, you won't. Actions speak louder than words, Pastor. And I have no need for your words now."

I fled into the dreary night, leaving him behind. There was nowhere left to go; I could only return to my personal Hell… to _that_ house. I refused to call it a home. I could only pray the devil was still asleep with his whiskey, and hadn't missed me as I'd discovered just how lost and alone I truly was. I had nowhere else to go… no one else to turn to. All my best hopes were dashed.

But I wasn't invisible yet. I had a choice. I could give up, and become that gray wisp of my waking dream, or I could cling tight to my colors, hide them deep, and make a plan for myself. I had a tin of aspirin, and a handful of sticks, three dollars, and a place to hide more, if I could save it. Mama was an ally, but she would never openly go against Papa. There was only so much she would do. If I were on my own, as it now seemed, I would start to act accordingly.

Men. They were monsters… _all monsters_.

Well, perhaps save one.


	4. November 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** In the synopsis, I mentioned that some chapters would include dark themes. This would be one of them. This chapter includes verbal, sexual, and physical abuse. If the snippets of Esme's memories that Edward saw in Ch 20 of Prelude made you uncomfortable, you might choose not to read it. I don't do this lightly. It's not gratuitous, glorified or romanticized. It's awful, but it's part of her story.

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I paced back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, checking that everything was in its place. Dinner was laid out on the table; I straightened the silverware again. The napkins were pressed. The roast was perfectly cooked and smelled delicious, though I had no appetite. The potatoes were covered to keep them warm in case he was late. Everything looked clean and tidy. It appeared perfect, if sterile. No flowers or candles cluttered the table; nothing indicated sentimentality. That was not warranted.

I smoothed my skirt, and noticed a small stain on my apron. Rushing to the kitchen I ripped it off of me and replaced it quickly with one from the drawer, thankful that the new one was not wrinkled. Shoving the offending garment to the back of the drawer until I could deal with it later, I straightened up and my breath hitched as I heard him open the door.

_Just fade. Just fade and speak quietly. Don't meet his eyes, hands down..._ I willed my racing heart to slow.

"Esme, I'm home!"

Taking a deep breath, I moved into the dining room just as he entered from the other room. He'd had a good day; he was practically swaggering. That could be good or bad…

"I can't have dinner with you; Mr. Watkins and I are going out for a drink. There's a job opening in another office, a promotion, and we going to discuss it and maybe talk about the war."

Despite the wasted effort, I couldn't help feeling relieved. I only hoped it wasn't obvious. "He's offering you a promotion?" I asked shakily.

He gave me a small sneer as he looked me over. "Perhaps, but it might mean moving to Indianapolis. Mmm," he said appraisingly, "I like that dress on you, Esme. I don't have time for dinner, but perhaps I should go straight to dessert." He moved toward me, and I tried not to shudder as he reached out and touched my waist, dragging his fingers across my ribcage, causing me to wince. "You look good enough that I'd bring you along to show you off if your face were presentable."

I flinched as he stroked his thumb across the yellowing bruise on my cheek. But then the hand moved down to my throat, like it always did, and rested heavily against my windpipe and pulse point: a silent threat. His hot mouth covered mine, pushing it open…taking, always taking.

I was up against the wall. His other hand was skimming my skirt now, pulling it up, grabbing at my leg. I tried not to stiffen, not to fight. Not to show that his breath reeked and his touch made my skin crawl. He began thrusting against me roughly, as if his intention were not already apparent, when the doorbell rang.

_Saved by the bell_.

"Don't worry, Esme," he whispered against my ear. "If you're a good girl, I'll let you finish me off when I get home." He lowered the hand that was on my throat and gave my breast a rough squeeze before pushing away from me and heading to the front door, leaving me shaking and gasping.

"Mr. Watkins," I heard from the other room, "right on time! Esme's not feeling well, so we should just be off." I heard him put on his hat and coat, and the door closed, and I was alone.

I threw out the dinner and cleaned the kitchen; Charles did not eat leftovers.

When I was sure everything was scrubbed clean and put away, I looked at the time, trying to judge how much longer he'd be gone. At least an hour. I made myself a cup of tea, mixing some of the Earl Grey that Nana had sent with the willow bark shavings. The fragrant tea hid the bitter taste of the bark, and I was grateful for both the medicinal value and the calming effect of drinking something that reminded me I was loved. Nana still sent me tea and art supplies. She'd even sent me a real china tea set as a wedding gift. I didn't display it; Charles didn't like the floral pattern, or really anything that reminded him that I lived here too, and I didn't trust him not to break it just to spite me. This was my one indulgence, my one pretty thing, my one unnecessary luxury. Well, the willow tea was necessary, but the lavender and bergamot of the Earl Grey were decadent in the extreme.

I raised the cup to my lips, letting the steam soothe my airways. The cup was at once delicate and bold. The china was fine, almost translucent. But the painting was vibrant: cobalt blue and white, with salmon-colored roses and gold filigree. Nana had written a beautiful note, telling me that the pattern had reminded her of me: vital and beautiful and pure. I leaned my forehead into my free hand, my elbow braced upon the table, and examined the exquisite pattern. I felt unworthy of it. I didn't believe I'd ever been this beautiful or bold, but if I had, I knew I wasn't any longer. My cobalt blue was fading. I was…diminished, pale, yellowed. I still loved the china, though, and part of me hoped that Nana never found out that I no longer deserved or matched its vibrancy. I was ashamed of what I'd become.

I finished my tea, washed my dishes, and gently placed my pot and cup near the back of the shelf, hiding them behind tins of tea and sugar. The tin of willow bark shavings I hid more carefully, amongst tins of baking supplies where it wouldn't be noticed. The willow had helped; I was breathing easier against the rib. I took the dirty apron from the drawer and made my way to the laundry room, throwing the apron in with tomorrow's load. Then I went down to the cellar, where the potatoes, onions and yams were stored in buckets, and jars of canned fruits and vegetables lined the shelves. Listening very carefully to make sure that the house was still empty, I moved three jars of canned peaches to the shelf below, and reached to the masonry wall behind the shelf, removing the loose brick to reveal my hiding spot. The small tin inside had everything I could hope to take with me: some jewelry to pawn, a bit of cash, and a newspaper clipping advertising a need for school teachers in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Ever since I'd decided to leave, I'd been trying to surreptitiously save money. We produced many of our own vegetables, but Charles sent me shopping for milk, eggs, meat, coffee, and grains for baking. And every time, when I'd returned, I would pocket a bit of the change and place it in the tin when he wasn't home. Never enough for him notice: a dime here, a nickel there. The change I gave him back always seemed like enough. My nest egg had been growing steadily, but slowly, very slowly. I took it out to count: if Charles was considering leaving Ohio, I needed to get out before that happened. Here, in the town with my parents and family friends, he was restraining himself, as hard as that was to believe. If he got me to a new city…I might just fade completely.

I quickly counted the money, and my stomach sank. It wasn't enough. Nowhere near enough. I needed a train ticket to Chicago. Even if they followed me to Chicago, so many trains left from there in so many directions, they'd never trace me beyond. But I needed money to get to Chicago, and then money for my next train, and then money to live on until I could get work. After months of saving, and Mama's gifts, I still had less than eight dollars. It was an insane idea. I would never save enough. Tears of frustration welled as I wished I could have added the eighty cents that had paid for the dinner I'd thrown out tonight. What a waste. That could have added significantly to my savings, if only I'd known Charles would refuse my meal.

I had to figure out where I could pawn the jewelry without being recognized. I needed an excuse to go to another neighborhood. Somewhere I wouldn't be known. I put the tin away, wiping the tears from my face as I replaced the brick, and lined the jars up so the wall was hidden. I was about to head back upstairs when I heard the front door open.

"Esme!"

His speech was slurred, and he sounded upset. I considered not answering, but I knew he'd find me. He always found me.

"I'm in the cellar," I called, trying to be loud enough to be heard without being offensive. I started up the stairs, but froze as his form darkened the doorway. I couldn't see his expression, but he was very still…unnaturally so. I cleared my throat. "How was your evening?"

He laughed darkly. "Not what I was hoping for." He started down the stairs and I backed down, moving to the far wall, away from the shelves and jars…away from my secret. "What are you doing down here?"

"I was just… I was just putting away some potatoes I didn't use tonight. I was getting ready to go up and change for bed."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he said, continuing slowly down the stairs, trapping me. "I sort of like you down here. I'm not sure you deserve that nice bed upstairs. I'm not sure you deserve to be up there with me. Ladies sleep in nice beds, Esme." He was now at the bottom of the stairs and I moved toward the corner, where I'd be more protected. He sauntered slowly toward me. I hated that he could sense my fear and resignation, that he thrived on it. I hated that I knew what was coming.

"Ladies," he said as he cornered me, putting one hand on the wall by my head, while the other lazily moved to the front of his pants, stroking his hardening length. "Not rough country tomboys who had to be married off so as not to be a burden. Who had no options. You're not good for much, Esme, but I do like the way that dress looks on you. And I've had a very frustrating evening. I could use a bit of tenderness right now." His hand moved roughly over my breast, squeezing too hard, as his knee moved between my legs. My startled cries were muffled by his mouth, which reeked of whiskey. He pushed me roughly into the wall, and I cried out again. "What's wrong, Esme? Miss your pillows? We don't need those… a girl who can walk miles in the rain and climb trees can sure as hell fuck against a wall like an alley whore."

He started hitching my skirt up, and I tried to stay calm, pliant; I _knew_ that would make it easiest on me. But the wall was so rough and hard, and the bricks were cutting into me. I moved my mouth away from his.

"Please, don't…"

"Don't?" he roared in my ear. "Is this not good enough for you? Well, maybe you're not good enough for me. Maybe I don't want your dry cunt. I have a better idea," he said grabbing my hair, and pushing me down roughly. I fell at his feet and cried out again as my knees jarred against the floor. Tears were flowing freely down my cheeks. The room was swimming as I tried to focus through my tears. I heard the zipper, inches from my face, felt his grip tighten in my hair, and I closed my eyes, trying to block it out. I could hear myself begging and sobbing as he tried to force my mouth open, could feel wetness spreading on my knees…blood, again. I was babbling. He never liked that.

I could vaguely make out his words as he chastised me: "Stop blathering and hold still. I have a better use for your mouth."

Hot, hard flesh pressed against my cheek, against my lips. I tried to clench my jaw tight but a hard tug on my hair made me yelp, and he forced himself in as I cried around the intrusion.

"Watch your teeth, Esme," he said as he began thrusting back and forth against my cries. "You know what will happen if I feel so much as a scrape."

I knew what I should do. I hated it, but I knew. I just couldn't do it. I was crying too hard. I couldn't breathe through my nose, and his thrusts were making me sputter and choke: the greater my distress, the more violent his thrusts, until the imperative overtook me. I turned my head sharply, just managing to expel his organ as I felt my hair tear from the side of my head. I gasped dazedly, and could hear his bellowing voice, but the words made no sense. I was too far gone, sobbing uncontrollably. And then the sharp stinging pain exploded on my right cheek, spraying stars across my closed eyelids. And then another blow, and another. I backed into the corner, tucking my knees up and curling into a small ball, using the walls to protect my sides and back, and trying to protect my head with my arms. He was cursing, and prying my arms away so he could hit my face. He was so angry. I'd never seen him quite this angry… and then a final blow across my temple, and darkness descended.

I woke up in a bed.

It was not mine.

I was in a brightly lit room with a bed and I _knew_ this room, and its green door and the smell of rubbing alcohol. This was a dream, or a memory. Perhaps I was dead, and _he'd_ walk through the door, as he had before, and somehow heal me. I watched the door, willing it to open and reveal kind golden eyes.

"Esme?"

I turned my head to the familiar sound, groaning as the pain registered. I didn't need to look; I knew the voice.

"Mama?"

"Oh, thank God!" she whispered, kissing the knuckles of my hand, which I now realized she'd been holding. The arm was in a cast.

I swallowed heavily. "How long?" I whispered.

She paused. "Two days."

I nodded. I'd been unconscious for two days…that was the longest yet. One of these days, I just wouldn't wake up.

"Esme," Mama whispered, "he's been drafted."

"What?" I asked, opening my eyes, finding hers.

"He got his draft papers. He was trying to get out of it, but it didn't work. He's heading to Europe. He'll be gone before you're released from the hospital. He told the doctors you fell down the stairs..."

She looked at me hopefully, though I could tell she didn't believe it. My mouth formed a grim line, and she had her answer.

Sighing, she asked, "Do you want to come stay with us? I don't know if you should be alone…"

I laughed weakly, coughing as my lungs tried to take more breath than they could. _Now_ she offered that I was finally safe. He'd been drafted. Oh, thank God.

"No, Mama. I'll be fine. I'm going to be fine."

And for the first time in a long time, I actually believed it.


	5. December 1917

 

 

 

The house smelled of death.

The icebox had thawed, and all the meat had spoiled. Mama pleaded with me to come home and let her take care of me, but in the end she had to be satisfied spending the day helping me clean and bringing me groceries.

She hugged me several times as she left, gingerly avoiding my cast. She made me promise to call if I needed help, and then she was gone. I locked the door behind her, turned, and sagged against it.

I was alone.

The silence was deafening, an oppressive relief. I walked through the empty house, my footsteps echoing. It felt like a trick: like he would burst through the door at any moment and punish me for…something. I didn't feel safe. I checked all the downstairs windows and the door again. They were locked; I _should_ be safe. But just in case, I walked the entire downstairs and made sure the house was exactly as he'd want it: nothing out of place. Then I did it again.

It grew dark, and I went to the cellar to see if he'd discovered my secret. I avoided looking in the far corner of the room; I didn't want to remember what had happened there. I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the jars of fruit in place and my tin exactly where I'd left it, all my savings intact. I counted it again, checked the jewelry, and then put it all back in the hiding place.

I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea and some eggs for dinner, carefully putting everything away when I was done. I surveyed the house one more time, making sure all was in place; there was no clutter, or dust, or dirt anywhere. And then I couldn't put it off any longer. It was time for bed.

I sighed and climbed the stairs. I hadn't been up here yet; Mama had cleaned the upstairs. I didn't trust myself to enter the cellar or these rooms while she was still present. I might have broken down, and then she would have insisted on staying or taking me with her. I needed to be alone. I needed to be safe.

I stopped outside the bedroom and looked in. It was sparse and impersonal, like the rest of the house. It still smelled of him. I couldn't sleep in that bed.

I took a nightgown and robe from the room and closed the door behind me, washed as best I could with my cast, and collapsed, exhausted on the sofa. There I slept fitfully, startled by every noise.

The next day I washed all the linens, adding lavender oil to the water in an attempt to purge his smell. I aired out the entire house, despite the frigid air. I brought wood into the living room, one log at a time, since my cast prevented me from carrying more. I went to the pond to collect willow bark, trudging through the deep snow, and then cleaned the water I'd dripped on the floor. Mama called, and I assured her I was fine. I slept on the sofa.

Everyday I cleaned. Days when it snowed, I dusted the shelves in the cabinets and closets, organized the linens and canned goods, took inventory of the food supplies. On clear days I took the carpets I could carry outside and beat them.

Each evening I walked the empty house, making sure nothing was out of place. I ate a small supper, making sure to clean up after myself, putting away my tins of tea and teacups in their usual hiding places. Mama called every evening. Every night, I slept on the sofa.

Eventually, I ran out of fresh food: eggs, butter, bread. Then I finished the flour. I had to face the world. I had to get money. This was not something Charles allowed; _he_ controlled the finances. But it seemed he really was gone, at least for a while. I examined my face in the mirror. The bruises were healed, and though the cast would make driving uncomfortable, I'd rather try to do this myself than enlist the help of my mother. I drove to the bank.

"Mrs. Evenson, please be seated," said the young man who ushered me into his office when I tried to make a withdrawal. "I'm glad to finally meet you. I'm Mr. Montgomery. I manage your husband's account."

"Our account, you mean?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"Ah, no, Mrs. Evenson. Your husband has not put you on the account, and gave express instructions that you not have unlimited access to his money."

I blanched, and he quickly went on, "But he organized an allowance for you, before he shipped off, Mrs. Evenson. A weekly allowance to cover your expenses. And if you need more for a particular purpose regarding the maintenance of the house, to repair damage, for instance, I'm authorized to approve payment of those receipts separately. All the routine bills are coming here now. I just paid your electrical bill yesterday."

It was mortifying. Even from France, Charles could belittle me. I was treated like a child, or a thief. Mr. Montgomery was talking quickly, awkwardly, and it occurred to me that this man did not approve of the fact that my husband had not allowed me to be on the account.

"How much?" I asked, trying not to take my irritation out on this man who was clearly uncomfortable with the news he was delivering, and whom I would be relying on for the foreseeable future. I wondered if Charles would try to starve me with paltry pocket money. But I was surprised. It was exactly half the amount I usually got for groceries. But I didn't need to feed myself nearly as well as Charles insisted I feed him. When I cooked for him, I had to purchase good cuts of meat, fresh bread, expensive fruits. But I didn't mind eating much more simply, much more cheaply. I'd be able to save _so much money_. A nervous laugh escaped me as I thought of my small tin overflowing. Mr. Montgomery took it as incredulity and looked at me sympathetically.

"I'm sorry," he started, but I cut him off.

"It's fine, Mr. Montgomery, I can make due with that amount. So I assume that Charles stipulated I had to come in every week to receive the money?"

He winced slightly and nodded. "I'll go get your funds," he said softly.

I waited, taking in the rich furnishings. Banks always appeared opulent, as if they were bragging about their ability to increase earnings. When he returned the amount was much more than expected.

"What's this?" I asked.

He looked up from counting the bills, clearly confused by my question. "Your husband left two weeks ago, Mrs. Evenson. So I believe I owe you three weeks' allowance: two for the backlog, and one for this coming week."

I couldn't hide my relief, and he gave me a small, almost conspiratorial smile. "I'll see you next week, Mrs. Evenson."

I ate well that night, and still put enough in the tin to thrill me. I actually had enough now for one train ticket. I would be penniless where ever I ended up, but I _could_ leave. And I didn't need to. I was safe _and_ I could escape. I was almost giddy, but I still cleaned the house thoroughly before going to bed.

Mama visited the next day, and I made us lunch and tea in Nana's teapot. She seemed somewhat surprised that I was functioning as well as I was. I'd never lived alone before, and she expected me to be lonely, or unable to run the household on my own. When she left, she seemed a bit wistful.

A week later, I moved my clothes into the guest bedroom, and started sleeping in a bed. I kept the door to the master bedroom closed. I was still on edge, still thought that Charles could come home at any moment — and he truly could — but I couldn't sleep on the sofa forever. And the upstairs bedrooms were much warmer at night. I made tea for myself, and wrote Nana a letter telling her that Charles had gone to war, but that I was managing on my own. I wrote of the snow, and the red rosehips, and the chickadees that fed on the grey weeds in the backyard, searching for any last seed that might sustain them through another day of harsh winter. When I finished, I looked around the spotless house and sighed. As the fear that he'd return and find fault began to ebb a bit, a new feeling was dawning that I'd never experienced: boredom.

As a child, I had endless passions and artistic pursuits, not to mention chores. Boredom just never occurred to me; if I had time, there were always new paints or paper or pastels to try out. Once I was married, I was in a constant state of panic, busy making everything perfect just to survive. But now… the house stayed clean, my meals were simple and efficient. Keeping the house did not fill my time. But even with this extra time on my hands, the idea of going to the attic and bringing down the art supplies Nana continued to send seemed preposterous. I had no idea what I'd do with them. To create, one had to be full, brimming, _overflowing_. But I was empty. Hollow. Echoing.

The following week was clear and beautiful, and the snow had melted from the roads and sidewalks in town. I put the jewelry from my tin into my purse, and set out for my weekly errands. After meeting with Mr. Montgomery, I went to the other side of town, where pawnshops and soup kitchens were plentiful. I tried three stores before someone offered what I thought my pieces were worth. I left, pleased that I had taken advantage of Charles' absence to get rid of that jewelry and add to my reserves. I was happy that the arrogant shopkeeper at the first store couldn't intimidate me into accepting only half of what I ended up getting. I may cower before Charles like a whipped puppy, but I didn't have to cower before anyone else.

I was musing as I rounded a corner and ran straight into a young woman carrying a suitcase.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," I said as she was also making her apologies. A young girl was standing with her, crying openly. I looked up at the woman's face and saw that she, too, had been crying. She looked away, clearly embarrassed, and took her daughter's hand. She glanced at the building behind her.

"I'm very sorry," I said, though she wouldn't meet my eye again. "I wasn't watching where I was going. Is there some way I can help you?" I asked, filled with a sudden desire to ease this woman's pain.

She shook her head and mumbled that they'd be fine, and then a woman opened the door of the building and called, "Come in, come in, it's freezing out here. Mrs. Gough, I've got your room all ready. Come in and get warm. You too," she added, looking at me.

Mrs. Gough and her child turned and walked toward the door, where the other woman gave them a reassuring smile. She had curly brown hair, kind grey eyes, and light freckles across her nose, but it was her smile that really struck me. It was open warm and incredibly welcoming, and though I had no business there, I allowed myself to be ushered in.

"If you'll wait just a moment while I get Mrs. Gough and Annabel settled... you're welcome to sit here while you wait for me."

I nodded mutely, and watched her escort the woman and child down the hall. I was left in a narrow parlor with several small tables where people were sitting and reading the newspaper or writing letters. Each table held a small vase with a cheerful bouquet of dried flowers. The woman sitting closest to me was swaying her head to the soft music coming from the radio as she read, and two young girls were sitting on the floor by the radiator playing jacks. I immediately liked the room. And though the people sitting here were not conversing, and it wasn't even clear they knew each other, the atmosphere was comfortable.

"Here we go," said the woman as she returned to me. "Come right in here, please." She showed me to another door and I followed her in. There was a small writing desk, but she didn't sit at it. Instead, she sat in one of two small chairs by the door, and invited me to sit in the other.

"Now, Mrs…"

"Evenson," I supplied.

She smiled. "Mrs. Evenson. What can I do for you? Are you needing a room, or just meals? Or are you here to volunteer?"

I stared into her warm face for a moment, almost confused by her friendliness. "What _is_ this place?" I finally asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you knew. This is a Hospitality House. When people fall on hard times, and they need a bit of help to get on their feet again, we help. Some folks just come at meal times, or to get help finding a job. More and more we're getting war widows. It's very sad, but we try to keep them hopeful and looking forward." She tilted her head and looked at me for a moment. "So, you don't need our services, then?"

"Uh, no," I answered. "My husband has gone to war, but I'm not a widow, and I have a home." Though now it occurred to me that I didn't know if I'd have one if I _became_ a widow. If Charles didn't put me on the accounts, would I still inherit his property? I wondered if Mr. Montgomery would tell me.

"Well, we always need volunteers, if you find you have free time on your hands. We need help at meal times, and taking care of the little ones while their parents are working. Most go to school, but not for as long as their parents are gone. And there are always—"

"I could help with the children?"

She paused, startled by my sudden enthusiasm. "Yes, if that's what you'd like. We just lost a volunteer who was coming in twice a week for four hours each Tuesday and Thursday. But if those days don't work for you we might be able switch some other people around. The children just need a bit of supervision and company to help keep them out of trouble. Sometimes the older ones need help with their schoolwork. They are good children."

"I would love that. When should I start?"

She smiled broadly. "I can show you around now, if you like. My name is Rachel Carmichael, by the way. You can call me Rachel." She held her hand out.

"Esme," I answered, shaking her hand, and feeling excited for the first time in months.

"Well, Esme, if you're staying a while, perhaps you'd like to leave your coat here." She helped me out of it, easing it over my cast, asking how long I'd had it.

"The cast will come off next week," I answered vaguely, wondering if she were worried that I wouldn't be able to perform my volunteer duties. It was on my left arm, but would still impair me a bit. She met my eyes, her smile drawing words from me I couldn't seem to help. "I fell," I said abruptly. "Down some stairs."

Her expression softened, but I sensed she saw through me.

"That must have been painful," she said after a moment. "Was your husband already at war? Were you alone?"

I flushed with embarrassment. She was not pressing for the truth, but she knew the lie. "He left shortly after my fall."

"I see. Well, I'm glad it's coming off soon, and I'm glad you've found us, Esme. We could certainly use the help."

Rachel showed me the facility, introduced me to the children and other tenants, as well as the few staff members: a cook, a cleaning woman, and a janitor. Everyone was kind. An hour later, I bade her farewell, promising to be back the next day.

The next two weeks were full of purpose and pleasure. The children were in need of stability and a friendly face, and I was happy to provide both. My cast came off, giving me more freedom to play games and help with their care and studies. Every day they grew a bit more comfortable with me. And I was becoming more comfortable with them, and with Rachel, too. It was better than any medicine I'd been prescribed for the pain. I felt tension I'd carried for months slowly ease. I was still on edge at home, but I was feeling safer by the day. My little tin was full enough that I could leave if I wanted to, and just that knowledge was enough to loosen the knot clenched in my stomach. My time at Hospitality House actually made me feel, if not actually happy, then at least content. To feel useful instead of used… it was wonderful.

I added another shift, helping Rachel in the office when one of the other volunteers was with the children. We talked lightly as we did filing. Rachel told stories about the antics of the children when I was away, and told of how she first became involved with the House. She didn't seem to notice the fact that I did not reciprocate with similar personal stories. I found myself smiling around her.

Even at home, where I felt on constant guard, I was beginning to relax a little more. As I was cleaning one night, instead of putting the teapot away in the cupboard, I placed it in the dining room, in the middle of the sideboard. In a place of honor. I felt audacious, staring at it, the one piece of _me_ in the otherwise stark room. I waited for the world to end, or the floor to swallow it or me whole. But nothing happened. With a nervous smile I turned off the light and went upstairs to the guest room — my room — and went to bed.

The week before Christmas, I was sitting in the corner of the parlor at the Hospitality House organizing receipts for Rachel when I heard the girls speaking amongst themselves that Santa Claus did not come to places like this. They needed to be happy to just have a place to live.

That night, I went to the attic, to the corner where I'd stored all the gifts from Nana. I took the large pieces of watercolor paper and cut them into smaller rectangles, so each child could have their own stack. I divvied up oil pastels and crayons and watercolor paints, compiling roughly equal art kits for each child. I wrapped each in tissue and ribbons, placing a name in red letters on each.

Christmas Eve was spent at my parents: an awkward meal full of silence and accusing glares between my father and me, which could not be fully covered by Mama's good food or attempts at conversation. I helped with the dishes and left early.

The next morning I dressed in a dark green wool dress and made my way to the Hospitality House with my packages for the children. They were all surprised to see me, and thrilled with the gifts. I showed them how to make drawings of flowers or trees, and they were quickly all settled on the floor, creating art before the hearth as I watched.

"That was a very kind thing you did, Esme," Rachel said, handing me a cup of eggnog. "It turned the holiday around for those youngsters. We're so focused on their basic needs — stockings and mufflers — we forget that children need to express themselves too."

"It was a pleasure," I said, accepting a piece of shortbread from her. "I've had the supplies stockpiled for a while; it's good to see them being used."

"Why aren't you using them?" Rachel asked softly.

I paused, wishing that I'd thought before I'd spoken. "My grandmother sends them, but I… I don't use them at the rate that I did when I was younger. So they get stored in the attic."

I took a sip of my eggnog and hoped the topic was finished. Rachel was watching me, and I couldn't look up, fearing the judgment — or worse, pity — I might find in her eyes. She always seemed to understand things about me that I tried to hide. But her voice was still soft, still warm and open when she said, "Well, I'm glad you brought them here, then, so you can share your gift with the children. And maybe in time it will help renew your passion for using them at home, too. Does your grandmother still send them?"

I smiled and nodded, finally brave enough to look up and see her smile. As Annabel came over to show me her drawing, Rachel excused herself to serve the other families. Several hours later, after a meal and carols and a skit put on by the children, I was helping clean up before I left.

"Rachel, where do you want these boxes stored?" I asked, collecting up some of the pile that had been discarded when the presents were unwrapped.

"I'll show you," she said, picking up the rest and leading the way down a hall to a large closet under the stairs, lined with shelves. Many things were stored along those shelves: boxes, paper, empty jars, work boots, cleaning supplies, and in the corner, piled on the floor, were several suitcases.

"Whose are those?" I asked, realizing with a sharp intake of breath that I needed more than my tin to make a viable escape.

Rachel followed my gaze. "No one's at the moment. Some people come to us with suitcases, but leave for family or a hospital, and leave them behind. Others come with almost nothing and leave with a job and a few belongings. So we save the cases that get left by their owners, and give them new owners when the opportunity arises. Waste not, want not."

I stared at the pile of suitcases and for the first time really imagined leaving. What would I take? How _exactly_ would I leave? Where would I go? I'd been so focused on gathering the necessary funds to leave, I'd never thought of any other logistics. And for now I was safe, but if he came back… But where could I hide it? A tin was one thing, but this? There's nowhere I could hide a suitcase, and he would see it, and he would _know_ , and that would likely be the end of me. It was such a gamble, staying. But now with my connection to Hospitality House, I couldn't imagine leaving. He might never come back. He might die there — this place was full of the widows of men who had. This could be my life: living alone, helping others here, seeing Mama every so often. It wouldn't be a bad life at all. I didn't want to leave it. But if he came back…

"Esme?" Rachel's gentle voice interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to look at her. I knew I must look pale, and her words were careful as she continued. "Esme, do _you_ need a suitcase?"

She knew. No details, of course, but in her line of work, how could she not know? I didn't answer, swallowing thickly instead.

Rachel nodded slightly. "I'd like to give you one, as a Christmas present. You could keep it here, in my office, and store whatever you like. I'll keep it safe for you. It could be our secret," she whispered.

After staring a moment, I asked, "Why would you?"

She smiled, knowing I would accept. "You gave hope to those children today; why would I not want to do the same for a friend?"

Tears welled in my eyes and something — relief maybe — passed through me. Rachel walked over to me and linked her arm in mine. She led me over to the cases and lifted a worn, brown leather one.

"This one will be best. It's in good condition, but not too new looking. It looks like dozens of others. You won't stand out carrying this, but it's well made and will hold up for you."

"Thank you," I whispered.

She smiled, and squeezed my arm affectionately. "Merry Christmas, Esme." And with that she led me out of the closet, down the narrow hall, and back to the warmth and light of the celebration.


	6. July 1918

 

 

 

I bolted upright in bed, startled and panting in the thick, black night air. I'd been dreaming, anticipating. But now disorientation wrapped around my mind as the sheets tangled around my legs, holding me tightly. I flexed my legs, trying to free myself before real panic set in, and then I heard it.

The thunder was still rolling. I allowed myself to fall back against my pillow, running my fingers through my hair, trying to steady my breathing. A thunderstorm. Just a thunderstorm. I loved them. I didn't find them frightening. Why was I so agitated?

I thought back to my dream, but it was already elusive: colors and moods, emotions. No action, no people, no plot. I could only remember the feeling. Coiling. Building. Ragged nerve endings. The nerves of my skin were ragged still. I kicked the sheets, freeing myself and making my nightgown rise up to my hips. A breeze brushed my thighs, and I nearly moaned out loud.

Was that it? Was that what I needed? I thought back to the first days of my marriage, before Charles had become insensitive and cruel, when he'd enjoyed my body in a way that allowed me to enjoy it, too. It had been brief, those nights when he was gentle enough to elicit pleasure instead of pain. So fleeting. But I remembered. I remembered what my body was capable of. I'd buried it, refused to think of sex, since the context most familiar was so horrible, but I did remember. And this night, the weather itself seemed to moan and grumble for release; it seemed to plead with me like a lover to roll and sway and chase together. A breeze stole across my skin again as rain pelted against the half-open window. My breathing deepened, and I closed my eyes as I let my hand drift down my belly, to the bare skin above my panties. And then, swallowing thickly, I eased my hand underneath the fabric. My finger met with slick heat, and a jolt ran up my spine, making me arch nearly off the bed. My inexperience was a burden, for _his_ face and hot breath entered my mind, but I quickly dispelled it. He was not a giver of pleasure. I tried to empty my mind completely as my fingers started circling and my breath went from merely uneven to gasps and moans. My body rocked on its own accord as my muscles roiled like a sea in the throes of a storm. The rain fell harder and my mind refused to stay dark, opting for light, warm colors. My body tensed and coiled, and I was at the edge ready to fall, ready to plunge. The cool breeze became cool hands caressing my legs; lightning flashed and I came, blinded by gilded hues and radiant ivory. My mind was still bathed in gold as I fell back to sleep.

The morning broke wet and bright, the clouds having moved on, but everything still drenched by the night's tantrum. The colors were saturated to the point of nonsense, and I was very nearly tempted to paint the riot of hues in the backyard, but I already had a full day planned. I drank my tea while watching the birds flit through the grasses, seeming joyfully free after the night of hunkering down and surviving. I felt much the same. My mind felt clear and my heart light as I contemplated my day. I had already put the clothes mama had given me for my birthday in a bag to return. They didn't suit me, and I could return them and get something no one had ever seen. Something to put in the case. I looked down at my empty teacup. This too, perhaps. There wasn't much of sentimental value that I would want to take with me, but one tea cup wouldn't go missing here… it could easily have been broken… and it wouldn't take much room in the case. I wrapped it carefully.

The return went easily. The dress had been very pretty: much too delicate and expensive for me. I honestly couldn't imagine what Mama had been thinking, unless it was to remind me of my station. I'd never given her details about the Hospitality House — I'd selfishly kept it all to myself — but I did tell her that I was occasionally volunteering with groups that helped war widows. She approved, but was afraid I might become rough, working among the homeless and desperate. Never mind that I had been raised on a farm, and had always had calloused hands, a fact Charles had hated and routinely belittled me for. But the roughness Mama feared was not the sort caused by farm work; it was caused by seedy, hopeless streets. Little did she know, working with the widows had saved me from that sort of roughness. It had given me hope, strengthened my resolve, and helped clarify my priorities. It had given me a way back to myself, and though I still hadn't painted at home, I sketched for the children regularly.

And I had a friend, for possibly the first time in my life. As a child, I'd been fairly isolated on the farm, and isolated even when at school by my peculiar way of looking at the world. As an adult, the general disinterest from others, and then the specific interest of my husband, had left me suspicious and careful. Trust was difficult for me, but I trusted Rachel.

"Esme?" she called as I opened the door. "Oh, I wasn't expecting you for another hour. Is everything all right?"

"Fine," I said, taking off my coat and hanging it on the familiar hook. "My errands didn't take as long as expected this morning. Let me just drop some things in the office and I can get started."

"It's open. Lock it when you're done, will you? We'll be in the kitchen."

Yes, I trusted Rachel, and what was even more wonderful, Rachel trusted me. She gave me a knowing smile and I let myself into the office, where most volunteers were not allowed alone. I locked the door, and went to the desk where I retrieved the key to the closet that held filing cabinets, the cash box, and my suitcase. I opened the case, taking stock of what was there, adding half of the new clothes that I'd bought today. All the clothes in the case were new…well, new to me. They could not be used in a description in a missing person's report. There was an envelope with half my cash, the other half still stored in the tin in the basement. There were newspaper advertisements for teaching positions in the western states, and the addresses and phone numbers of Hospitality Houses in several big cities in the west. And now there was a teacup. I closed the case, put it back in the dark corner, locked the closet, and returned the key to its hiding place. Then I locked the office door and slipped the key into my dress pocket. A moment later I was by Rachel's side, elbow-deep in bread dough, watching the children over-knead their pastries and laughing.

Not that it was always fun. There was hard work, and I often went home with a sore back or headache. And not everyone who came to the house was what he or she appeared. In early August a man arrived claiming to be a war veteran; he even had discharge papers. A week after he'd moved in, he disappeared, and took the money from the grocery tin that had been sitting on the desk in the office. Thankfully, he never went to the closet; he never got his hands on the cash box itself, never saw my case or the savings it stored. I still took inventory of my suitcase three times before I felt safe again. Rachel was devastated, and had to fight the loss of her faith in people. She instituted new policies then about who could be in the office unsupervised, and the office was now locked unless she or I were present. Most of the people we worked with were wonderful, but we were careful now with new families, and especially new single men. No, the work wasn't always fun, and wasn't always easy, but it was rewarding and important and made me feel my worth.

By late August we'd finished canning much of the year's harvest: sweet pickles, tomatoes, beans, apples and pears. I'd done the canning for my home, and then brought supplies in and taught the children to can. They were so proud of their rows and rows of brightly colored jars, and Rachel was pleased that she'd be saving money she'd otherwise spend on tinned goods. The House had a small plot in the back that we tried to grow vegetables in, but the rats in the city ate most of it. My home, on the edge of town and with quite a bit more land, had more success. I'd been bringing in flowers and tomatoes and peas all summer, and now I was carrying a box of early pumpkins and other squash. The children met me at the door, relieving me of the box and taking it to the kitchen, their excited voices carrying down the hall. Rachel came out of office as I was taking off my coat.

"You're too generous with your vegetables," she teased.

I smiled as I answered. "My basement is already full of jars. I'd rather your lodgers eat them than the crows get them. And the kids want jack-o-lanterns for Halloween. There are more in the garden that should be ripe in October."

She shook her head, clearly imagining the mayhem, but her face grew serious when she saw the envelope in my pocket. "New letter?"

I sighed. "I haven't even opened it yet."

Charles's letters had been sporadic at best. I hadn't gotten anything the first three months he was gone, but then they began. At first they were brief, businesslike. Reminding of things I needed to take care of at the house so the pipes didn't freeze, or when to plant the garden, as if I weren't raised on a farm. I'd get letters three weeks in a row, and then nothing for months. Then another burst. I swore he did it just to keep me off balance. But during the last few months the letters had become… if not friendly, then wistful. They began "Dear Esme" rather than opening with merely my name. They told me the names of his fellow soldiers, and the weather, and the colors that the village houses were painted. He sounded lonely. Or scared.

"Come to the office and open it," Rachel suggested.

I sat in one of the two chairs by the wall, looking the envelope over. The postmark read Brussels. Rachel came in carrying two cups of tea.

I looked at her, confused. "When did you buy tea?"

"I have this friend who likes it, so I thought I'd better learn how to make it," she said smiling with a wink. She took a sip and grimaced. "I don't think I've quite got it, yet."

"A little over-steeped," I agreed after my first sip. "But a promising beginning. I'll give you lessons."

"Or I could stick with coffee," she muttered. We both laughed, and then her expression became somber. "So where is he now?"

"Postmarked in Belgium."

She waited, watching me carefully as I took a deep breath, opened the letter, and scanned the contents.

"He'll be heading south, I think. He said he's trying to learn French." I was vaguely surprised that even that had made it through the censors. Usually anything relating to location was blocked out.

"I read in the papers last week that there had been a battle in Picardy. I imagine they're bringing some American troops into France to fight alongside the British and Australians."

"Maybe that's it." There had been rumors that preparations were being made for a large assault. The trenches in France had been stable, battle lines static all summer, but that last battle had moved the Western Front. The Germans had retreated. Something was beginning. Something big. And Charles might well be in the middle of it.

I heard voices from the hallway. Women coming home from work, greeting their children. War widows. It was sad, but there was a certain nobility in it, and I found myself jealous of them.

Rachel grasped my hand, making me look up at her. We had never really discussed the reason why I needed a suitcase. I'd never told her how he beat me, but she knew. Somehow, she knew. Just as she now saw that I was worried, but not for him. My warring emotions must have been showing on my face.

"All will be well in the end, Esme."

To someone looking on, it would appear that she was reassuring me that my husband would return: a common sentiment in these dark times. But that wasn't what she meant, or at least that wasn't _all_ she meant. Rachel was a pragmatist. She didn't believe that everything happened for a reason; she'd seen too much suffering, and refused to imagine God toying with his creation like that. She did, however believe something just as powerful: she believed that there were many ways to be happy. With help, we could make our happiness, despite changes in circumstances, despite harsh realities, despite death and destitution. It was what drove her to run the Hospitality House, and encourage others to join the Red Cross. It was what made _her_ happy.

We scanned the papers every week. There were major battles in France in September, and then in the beginning of October, American troops helped win the battle of St. Quintin Canal. Charles was almost certainly in that one, though his letters never said anything specific. His letter of September 20th told me that I was unlikely to hear any more from him for a while. Two weeks later, the Battle for the Argonne Forest, later to be known as the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, began.

Nearly every week, there were new casualties and deaths listed in the local paper. In the month of October we had eight widows approach us for shelter; we only had room for three. More and more people frequented our noon meals. They weren't free to the public, but nearly as good as.

The children celebrated Halloween, making costumes from old tins and flour sacks. Robots and Zorro and princesses. No one had the stomach to dress as something monstrous when Europe was bathed in blood. Then on November 11, Germany signed an armistice, and all fighting ceased.

I didn't hear from Charles.

That Thanksgiving was splendid. The war was over, and though we were still receiving those dreaded telegrams about casualties and deaths for those final battles — 117,000 men lost and those were just the Americans — we gave a collected sigh of relief. As the weeks wore on, fewer and fewer people were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Still, I didn't hear from Charles.

Christmas came, and I made a point to draw for each of the children, and helped them make art projects for their parents. People in town were deliriously happy as soldiers started returning home. Those at Hospitality House were stoic in the face of others' joy.

And still I didn't hear from Charles.

Rachel watched me carefully. When the war first ended, I'd been a wreck. Rachel had grown so concerned she'd actually given me a key to the House so that I could come in the middle of the night if need be. As the weeks wore on, I stopped jumping at shadows. I helped those around me. New Year's Eve brought celebrations of hope and new beginnings, and I was hopeful that I would be allowed to hold onto the life I'd created for myself.

February 17th, I was drinking a cup of tea at the dining room table before heading off to bed when the doorbell rang, far too late to be good news. I braced myself for my telegram, opened the door and saw two soldiers.

It was only when one of them said, "Hello, Esme," in Charles's voice that I realized that I would not be getting a telegram, and the world went dark.


	7. February 1919

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning** This chapter contains physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, including dubious consent and discussions of rape. Read at your discretion.

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"Mrs. Evenson? Can you hear me?"

The soldier came into focus again. I looked at him, and then at Charles, not quite understanding his expression. It held none of his usual haughtiness. He was tired, clearly. There were lines around his eyes that I didn't remember. He looked almost sad.

I tried to stand. Both of them immediately reached out their hands, but I grasped the stranger's. There was silence for a moment as he looked back and forth between Charles and me.

"Mrs. Evenson?" he asked again.

I nodded absently, watching Charles as he watched me.

"We'll be fine, Lieutenant. Thank you for your help."

He nodded and saluted. "Thank you for your service, Sergeant Evenson. Best of luck with your recovery and your civilian life." Charles saluted back, and after giving me one last look, the lieutenant left us alone. I still hadn't said a word.

After another moment, Charles sighed and dragged his hand down his face. "I need to sit down. It's been a long journey."

I nodded and tightened my robe around me, feeling very exposed and off-center. I followed him into the parlor and watched from a distance as he sunk onto the sofa, closing his eyes, clearly exhausted. Finally, I cleared my throat. "Have you eaten?"

He swayed slightly, and opened his eyes. "Not since…not for a very long time."

"I can make you something. A sandwich? I have some chicken in the icebox…" Charles wouldn't normally want a sandwich for dinner, but as it was after ten, and I wasn't sure he'd stay awake long enough for me to cook anything. It seemed reasonable. Of course, Charles wasn't always reasonable.

"A sandwich would be great. Thank you, Esme."

I retreated to the kitchen, noticing everything that was _out_ that needed to be hidden. My teapot, my vases, my colored pencils. Nothing was messy, but signs of me were everywhere. I made the sandwich quickly, and brought it with a glass of milk back to Charles.

I started to retreat as he took his first bite, but he nodded to the chair, and so I sat instead.

After a few moments he asked, "How have you been?"

I blinked, not knowing exactly how to react to _this_ Charles. "Fine, fine. I was just heading to bed when you got home." I really wished I hadn't said that. I didn't want Charles to think of me in bed. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to shrink, which was impossible.

"Good. Good. The house looks good… thanks for taking care of it."

I didn't have a response for that.

He finished his sandwich and leaned back, closing his eyes again. "If you could bring me some blankets and a pillow, I can sleep down here tonight."

"You don't want to sleep in your bed?" I asked incredulously.

"I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

"Oh, I've been sleeping in the other room, the spare room."

He was clearly startled, but then nodded. "Okay, I'll sleep in the master bedroom then." He got up carefully, grabbed the backpack that had been left by the door, and made his way up the stairs. "Good night, Esme," he called down from the top of the stairs. I listened as he cleaned his teeth and washed his face, and then heard the door to the bedroom click shut.

For several long minutes I stood in the middle of the room trying to decide what to do. I could dress, get my tin from the cellar, drive to the Hospitality House to pick up my suitcase, and go to the train station. I could do it _right now_. But he would hear me changing. He might hear the car start. And there were surely no trains until morning. He might find me before I was able to leave town.

And he was being… if not kind, then certainly polite. I didn't _feel_ in danger. The lieutenant had said he needed to recover, and he was clearly tired. Had he been injured? Was that the reason for his delay? If he were injured, shouldn't his wife help him recover? As long as he was not hurting me, I felt some responsibility for helping him. A duty. He'd done his duty by going to war, and perhaps it was mine to help him recover from it. He seemed different; perhaps the war had taught him what it was like to be on the receiving end of violence. Maybe it had made him a better man.

Since leaving tonight seemed untenable, I decided to take precautions, in case the _old_ Charles was the one to wake up. There was no way I'd be falling asleep anytime soon, anyway, especially with him right across the hall. I put away my tea set and vases, and nearly everything else that was out on the shelves and tables, dusting as I went. I made a shopping list of Charles's favorite foods so I could stock the icebox tomorrow. While I was out shopping I'd be able to stop by the Red Cross and Hospitality House and explain that I could no longer volunteer. I assumed that Charles would not allow this, though perhaps I could make a case for one day a week. When the downstairs was more or less the way Charles liked it, I crept upstairs and locked myself in my room. It still took me hours to fall to sleep.

I was nearly ready to leave the next morning when he finally came downstairs, startling me as I was writing him a note.

"Sneaking out?" he asked, and then smiled apologetically. It was clearly meant as a joke and not an accusation, but with our history it still made my heart race. I handed him the half-finished note so he would see I wasn't hiding anything.

"I need to go shopping. I don't have enough food in the house for both of us. And I need to make some arrangements. There are people in town expecting me, and I need to tell them I won't be available for a while."

He sat at the table. "Who's expecting you?"

I bit my lip, hoping this went as well as it had when I'd rehearsed it in my mind. "I've been volunteering in town, at the Red Cross and a few places that help war widows. I could try calling, but they are often a bit chaotic, and I'd feel better if I spoke with someone in person, so they know not to expect me."

"You've been volunteering for the war effort?"

I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself. "There are so many people needing help. I didn't give money, but I gave my time, and extra vegetables from the garden, and things like that…"

He looked at me for a long time, almost as if he'd never seen me before. "And you don't want to do it anymore?"

"Well, I do, but I won't have as much time now, and I assume you'd rather… you'd rather…"

He scrubbed his face. "Sit down, Esme. Let's talk before you go shopping."

I sat, keeping my back straight but not quite meeting his eyes.

"Esme, I know… before I left… things were not very good. I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. I wasn't a good husband."

There was no way I was going to agree with that, and no way I could deny it. I felt trapped, and I just sat very, very still, hoping not to trigger his wrath with any response to these impossible statements.

"When I was in France, I truly learned what it was to be scared almost all the time. And I realized I'd done that to you."

He paused, looking for confirmation, but I was still. It was true; he'd made this house a battlefield.

"I was in the last battle of the war, and it was terrible: the worst by far that I'd seen. I was so sure I'd die. And then the battle was over, and I hadn't. I was helping collect the injured and we walked into a valley, not realizing it had been part of the battlefield, and we dropped into a pool of mustard gas… it can linger near the ground for days, collect in valleys. I woke up in a hospital, lucky I was alive and not blind, but it had damaged my lungs, and I caught pneumonia. For weeks I was feverish, and could barely breathe, and I swore that if I ever got home, I would try to be better to you."

He paused again, and I risked a look up into his face, trying to decide if he was sincere. He looked tired and sad.

"Esme?" He watched as I fidgeted under his gaze, hating that all my confidence fled when he was in the room. I barely recognized myself. "Okay?"

"Okay."

He sighed. "So if you want to keep working with the war widows, that's fine. I'll need to start working again in a week or so, and I'd like you home on the weekends. You used to drive me sometimes so you'd have the car for shopping. Why don't we do that again, and you can also volunteer on those days? Twice a week. And I want to know where you're volunteering."

"Okay." That didn't seem to be enough. "Thank you."

He smiled softly and leaned back in the chair. "You're welcome. Now, could you make me some breakfast before you leave? I'm still a bit weak."

I stood quickly, moving to the drawer with the aprons. "Bacon and eggs okay?"

"Fine." He leaned his elbows on the table and slouched forward, only rousing a bit when I put a hot plate of food in front of him.

"Is there anything you want from the store?"

"Beef, if it's available. I can't think of the last time I got to eat any." I nodded, telling him I'd do my best as I headed out to the car.

My arms shook as I drove to Rachel, and I must have been pale, for when she saw me, she took me by the arm and silently ushered me into the office. Only when the door was locked did she turn and ask, "What? What's happened?"

"He's home."

She sat in the chair, watching me for several minutes. Scrutinizing my face. Looking for bruises, I realized.

"I'm okay."

"You're not acting okay."

I grimaced, not knowing how to explain my emotions.

"Do you need to leave?"

And that was the question. Do I take my suitcase and the money from the bank and leave now, before he's had a chance to hurt me again? And if I did, would I ever see Rachel again?

"I don't think so. He was kind last night, and he's said I could continue volunteering, though not as often, of course. He would have never allowed that before." Now that I was safe with her, it felt easier to think about all that had happened. "He said he'd almost died, and that he'd made a deal with god that if he lived, he would treat me better. Do you think people can change, Rachel?"

Rachel sighed and looked away for a moment. "Yes. I have to believe that in my line of work. I see people turn their lives around every day. But you're talking about a big change. I don't know if that's possible. And I don't know if I'm willing to risk you to see if it is."

I grasped her hands. " _I'm_ willing to risk it, for now," I said quickly, as she started to interrupt. "He seems different, and I don't want to lose all this." I motioned my hand to encompass the Hospitality House, but she knew I meant her.

She slowly let out a breath. "You're sure? If he lays a hand on you—"

"—then I'll go. Promise. I'm just scared that if he knows you, because I work here, then when I leave—"

"I'll be fine. I have friends, Esme. A lot of people rely on this place. They won't let anything happen."

She stood up and walked over to the desk. "This is a key to the front door. If you need to go, any time, day or night, you let yourself in, get your bag, and go. I don't care if it's three in the morning. Keep it safe," she said, placing it my hand, and closing my fingers over it. I nodded, and then gave her a hug.

"I need to switch to Wednesday mornings."

She laughed, hugging me tighter. "I think we can accommodate that.

I went to the bank, the store, and the Red Cross, and then went home, putting away the groceries and making roast and potatoes for supper.

Charles spent most of his first week home on the sofa, still weak from the pneumonia. He watched me as I worked around him. It was disconcerting at first, but I realized his gaze held none of the malice it had in the past. He wasn't watching me to catch me when I made a mistake. He was watching me to get reacquainted.

And there were the nightmares. He suffered from terrible ones. At night I was too afraid to go to his room to wake him, but when he started crying out in the middle of the day, I quickly ran to him from the kitchen. He bolted awake just as I entered the room, his eyes frantically darting around until he recognized his surroundings and flopped back on the pillows, covering his face with his hands. I took a step forward, and he started, relaxing again when he saw my face.

"Esme."

I walked toward him carefully. "Nightmares?"

He nodded, looking chagrined.

"Don't feel bad. It's common. Lots of men get them." His eyes narrowed and I continued quickly, "At the Red Cross, we don't just work with war widows. We get a lot of veterans, too. I've seen some that have come back with terrible shellshock and nightmares. I'm sorry; I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. Can I get you anything?"

His face softened and he reached a hand out toward mine. "Esme, I need… I need..."

"What, Charles?" I asked, stepping closer. His hand rubbed along my thigh and I froze, looking back to his face. There terror had been replaced by something desperate. His hand was insistent, but not forceful. I looked down to see that he was hard where his other hand pressed into his trousers. I shuddered. I didn't know if I could do this.

"Please, Esme," he whispered, and the hand stroking my thigh moved to the hem of my skirt and then underneath it. I closed my eyes as I felt his rough, battle-worn fingertips softly caress my bare skin above my thick stockings. And god, if my body didn't respond. "It's been so long, Esme, please. I need it."

I'd never risked refusing him, and he was trying to be so good, asking, and not just taking. Eyes still closed, I barely nodded, and I heard his intake of breath and then the zip of his pants. I felt his fingers hook over my panties and pull them down. His hands moved me into position, straddling him on the sofa, and I gasped as I felt him push inside me. I tried not to think of him, of all the times he'd hurt me. I tried to remember the passion I felt during the rainstorm. His hand gripped my hips, pulling me down against him as he pushed up, and it would have been painful if his thumb weren't brushing against my clitoris, sending jolts of pleasure through me.

"Oh, that's it, Esme. Oh, now you're getting wet. That feels so nice. Fuck Esme, I forgot how good you feel." He was slow, if not gentle, and I thought of pelting rain and tried not to stiffen at his words. His thumb abandoned its position so he could grip my hips more forcefully, thrusting up into me, panting, straining, and finally crying out his release. He lay blissfully still and I climbed off him, muttering some excuse. I gathered my underwear off the floor, fled quietly into the backyard, and got sick into a bush.

The following week he was strong enough to start working, but weak enough that he rested on the sofa when he was home. It felt good to have the reprieve when he was gone. Rachel worried about me, but I soon settled into a new cautious rhythm. I began to relax and enjoy my time at the House again. Charles was being surprisingly reasonable, and the joy I felt at keeping my ties at Hospitality House easily outweighed any awkwardness around my home with Charles. He actually let me continue going to the bank, where the amount I was allowed to withdraw was now double to allow me to buy extra food. Still, I never risked pocketing any of it. I had savings enough and suspected he was watching every receipt.

The first time he hit me, it wasn't really his fault. It was July, and a sweltering Saturday afternoon. I was in the kitchen cutting peaches for canning and he was napping on the sofa when I heard him crying out with a nightmare. I went to the sofa, touching his shoulder to wake him, and he punched my face before he'd even fully wakened. He'd felt terrible, leading me to the kitchen and helping me ice it. But as he held the cloth full of ice over my left cheek, his thumb traced my right cheekbone, almost as if to determine exactly how fragile it was. My mind was drowning in flashbacks of him admiring his handiwork before the war. He must have seen it in my face, because he apologized again, and told me once the bruise had healed, I could add another morning to my volunteer schedule, as long as I kept up with the housework. And as I sat there, feeling the bruise blossom over my cheek, I was happy.

Rachel wasn't.

"I woke him from a nightmare; he didn't realize it was me."

"He's becoming more controlling."

"He's letting me come here another morning a week. Anything is worth that."

"No, Esme, it's not." She pulled me into a hug and whispered into my ear, "Do you know where your key is?" I nodded. "Do you wear it at all times?"

"No, if I wore it, he'd find it when he strips me." That was the wrong thing to say; she stiffened. "I keep it with the rest of my money. It's safe. I'll have it if I need it."

I was now at the House often enough to teach the kids art technique again, but my own painting had once again ground to a halt. I was too tense, always balancing on a knife's edge, and I could no longer create. Charles was more particular about the house, finding new things to complain about. I suspected things were not going well with the family business.

By October, he'd insisted I sleep in his bed. I'd wake up in the middle of the night with him already inside me, and bury my face into my pillow to keep from crying out in pain and shame. I had bruises on my hips from his fingers, and Rachel always noticed when I was walking stiffly.

The first time he hit me and _meant_ it was when I brought a bottle of aspirin home from shopping. He accused me of trying to make him feel guilty for being a man, and having the needs of a man. I tried to say that I wasn't complaining, I just wanted to ease the aches, and he hit me across the face for talking back to him. Then he asked me why I made him do that. I stayed crumpled on the floor until he left.

He came back four hours later with flowers and a promise to do better, and an offer to let me go work an extra Saturday once the bruising had healed. And I was torn. I started making willow bark tea for myself again.

I was making pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving with my parents, leaning over the table rolling out dough when he entered the kitchen behind me.

"Esme, don't move." I froze and felt him come closer, placing his hand between my shoulder blades and pushing my face down into the table. I offered no resistance. He stepped back, hand tracing down my spind and settling on my hip. I felt his eyes everywhere.

"Mmm. You look good like this. You know when I was in France, there was this little bakery in the town we were protecting. Every morning around four a.m. this girl would be bent over the table, up to her elbows in flour, flaunting her ass like it was up for grabs." I heard the metal of his buckle scrape. "Hers was rounder than yours, and her skirt was a bit shorter and fuller." He slowly started hitching my skirt up, and I whimpered, in spite of myself. "Hmmm. Yes, like that. She wasn't as good at holding still as you are." His hands roamed over my buttocks and pulled my underwear down. "But we were there protecting her town. We deserved a bit of thanks, don't you think?"

He pushed into me, and after several dry strokes the stimulation made my body respond.

"I could always tell she really liked it, though, because she always got wet after a bit, just like you do, Esme."

I bit back a sob as he sped his rhythm. I mourned myself, and a poor French girl that my husband had apparently _raped_. I needed to leave. I really needed to leave before I lost any more of myself. He finished, and gave me an affectionate pat, as if it hadn't been horrifying — as if it had been mutual, and no crimes had been confessed. He left satisfied and happy. I heard the front door close and pushed myself up off the table, sobbing. I was covered in flour.

I knew then that he had lied to me when he first came home. The war hadn't changed him. He didn't want to be better. His nature was a constant. I wouldn't be fooled again.

As Christmas approached, I was back to volunteering at the House three days a week, and the Red Cross the other two, taking the bus when Charles had the car. None of the shifts were long, but they got me out of the house, seeing other people whose situations were worse than mine. But I was growing exhausted and desperate. To volunteer that much and keep the house the way Charles liked it was getting more and more difficult. Charles was better at only bruising me where it didn't show, so I didn't have to skip my hours… the volunteer work was the only thing keeping me sane, keeping me here. I was terrified of leaving it, of having nothing.

"Esme, you know I love you like a sister, right?" Rachel asked during my next shift. I nodded stiffly, wincing as her hug brushed a bruise on my shoulder. I was fairly certain my rib was cracked as well. "It pains me to see you like this. I don't want to be the one responsible for tethering you to a place you shouldn't be. You need to make plans."

I nodded, but the truth was, I couldn't imagine leaving her. She was my first and best friend, and gave me hope and love. I knew she was right; I wanted to be strong like her, make her proud of me. I knew I had everything I needed; everything was ready. I just couldn't leave.

But that wasn't all. Charles was not kind, but I was used to him. I didn't expect kindness, so I couldn't be disappointed. I knew what to expect, and though it drained me, I knew I could handle it. The energy I needed to expend to keep Charles happy was something I understood; I was exhausted, but most of the time I could manage it. The energy I would need to expend to actually _leave_ was unfathomable and terrifying. If I left, who knew what might happen. I could end up worse off. As long as I didn't upset Charles, things were bearable. Momentum and fear were comfortable if heavy chains.

"I need you to stay home today," Charles told me a week before Christmas.

"But the children need me to help them finish their Christmas presents for their parents. We've been working on it for weeks, and today is our last session."

"Someone else will have to do it."

"No one else can do it! I'm the only one who knows how, and the other volunteers don't have time. They're working on the food." I knew immediately that I'd made a mistake.

He looked at me appraisingly. "So you think you're special, is that it? You think you're an artist? That you have some sort of _fire_ or passion that allows you to talk back and inspire creativity in those little brats. You're not special, Esme. You don't have any fire. And if you do, it's nothing I can't beat out of you." He grabbed my by the hair and threw me to the ground. "I need you _here_ today, Esme. Call that blasted place and tell them you can't come.

I managed to finally get to the house a few days later, and the children were able to finish their gifts before Christmas, but I knew then that I was no longer able to direct my time. I'd have to be careful what I promised them.

January of 1920 was grey and wet and dreary, and felt like the perfect palette for my life. Charles grew increasingly demanding, making home a dark shadowy hell again. My time at the Hospitality House and Red Cross lightened my heart enough to make things bearable. But it was all still grey. I'd lost my ability to find color in the world. And then spring came, with its small and surprising hands unfurling colors where they are least expected. For the first time, the rose bushes I planted when I first married Charles began to bloom. In March, tiny pink buds appeared, and my shocked mind registered hope for the first time in recent memory. In April I started bringing Rachel a blossom every time I came into the House.

I was tending them on a fine May morning, collecting red blossoms when I was struck by a thought. The _lack_ of red. I thought back and realized it had been two months since I last bled. I was filled with both hope and dread. Hope that love would be part of my life forever, and dread that a child should be brought into this house, to such a father. How could I protect my daughter from such a man? I wished that Rachel and I could run away and raise her ourselves, but I would never ask her to leave the life she'd built for herself. So many people relied on her.

I was quiet the next day at the Hospitality House. Rachel watched me carefully, and after the children finished their art lessons, she pulled me aside.

"You look pale. Are you well?"

I smiled, nodding. "Rachel, you're going to be an aunt," I whispered.

Her eyes grew large. "Esme!" She hugged me tightly. "What are you going to do?"

"I haven't worked that out yet, but I'll have to soon."

"I'll help you."

"We have to be careful. If I leave, and he thinks you helped me, he'll be very unhappy with you. You don't want him unhappy with you."

"He doesn't scare me, Esme. I've dealt with bullies before."

Three weeks later Charles came home from work impossibly drunk, and pushed me down the stairs. I stayed there, crumpled on the floor as he changed for bed. I wasn't even crying, I was just furious, and praying that the tumble hadn't injured the baby. I waited for him to fall asleep, collected my tin from the basement, and cut a single red rose from the garden. I left the rose on Rachel's desk when I let myself into the Hospitality House, along with my keys to the front door and office. I collected my suitcase, and made it to the station in time to catch the last train to Chicago. He would never know his daughter, if I had anything to say about it.


	8. June 1920

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is the last chapter of Intermezzo, and if you know Esme's story, you know this one earns its rating for character death other issues that may be triggers. Many thanks to Woodlily for betaing. I've tweaked it since, so any errors are my own.

I walked up the drive, clutching the paper with the address in one hand and my suitcase in the other. I wasn't even sure how long I'd been awake at this point; I'd taken the overnight train to Chicago, then a mid-morning train to Milwaukee, then a cab to this address, where I hoped I'd find welcome.

My cousin answered the door, stunned to find me, and even more stunned to find me in this condition: a bruise on my forehead from the fall down the stairs, and wincing with a likely cracked rib when she embraced me.

"I'm sorry to put you in this position," I whispered as she hugged me more gingerly around the shoulders. "I just need a day or two to get healed enough for real travel, and then I'll be out of your hair."

"Nonsense! You can stay as long as you like. I'd heard rumors that things weren't good, but I didn't want to believe them," she said, leading me into the house.

I shook my head. "They'll find me here. It will be better for both of us if I don't stay long."

The bath she offered was glorious. I knew I'd be covered with the grime of travel again soon, but the reprieve felt luxurious. It also gave me a chance to survey the damage to my body, most of which seemed to be focused on my shoulders, ribs, my left hip, and head. I must have tucked in when I rolled down the stairs; my abdomen seemed unbruised.

I wrapped a bandage tightly around my ribs and took a cautious breath. It was better. Maybe I'd be able to leave even sooner than I'd anticipated.

When I went back to the spare room to change, I opened my suitcase and studied its contents for the first time, realizing that some things were unfamiliar. There was a manila envelope with newspaper cuttings for teaching positions in different states, as well as the addresses of four different Hospitality Houses, in towns ranging from Indianapolis to Portland, Oregon. And there was a letter from Rachel praising my skill as a teacher and my reliability as an employee.

But that wasn't what made me cry.

There was another envelope with seventy dollars that I knew I hadn't saved, and a note from Rachel telling me that I should consider it back wages for my long service. There were scissors and a nail file and extra pairs of stockings and a brown felt cloche, not as fashionable as some, perhaps, but perfectly serviceable as a travel hat.

But they didn't make me cry either.

The yellow baby blanket, crocheted by hand of soft yarn and hidden under my clothes: _that_ made me weep for my friend and sister. Even now, when I'd stolen away under cover of darkness without saying goodbye, she was taking care of me, and giving me the tools to take care of myself. I didn't know if I'd ever find love like that again in my life.

I realized I'd been upstairs too long; I packed everything carefully away, dressed, and dried my eyes.

Mildred's husband came home at five o'clock, surprised to have company, but not ill tempered about it. Over dinner he asked of my plans, and I vaguely said that I would go west and become a teacher, as I'd intended to do before I married. I kept my answers ambiguous, and neither he nor Mildred pushed, all of us realizing that the less they knew the better.

The meal was pleasant as I became reacquainted with Mildred and newly acquainted with her husband, Daniel. They were kind, in a general sort of way: happy to help, but relieved I wasn't staying long or asking too much. They seemed to realize that my safety was in their hands, and Daniel was uncomfortable with the situation. So I didn't give details about my treatment from my husband. They knew the rumors and saw the evidence that was visible. I didn't tell them about my work at the Hospitality House, saying merely that I had volunteered with war widows and children. I didn't tell them I was pregnant, and was grateful that I'd left before I'd started showing. If Charles ever found out I was expecting his child, I knew he'd never stop looking for me. It was better not to risk that secret with anyone.

I slept for ten straight hours, and felt so much better the next morning that I resolved to leave the following day. I liked my cousin; we'd had our adventures on the farm when I was growing up, and we never lost a fondness for each other, even as we grew apart. My father would know to call her whenever Charles informed him I'd run off. I didn't know how long it would take for Charles to go to my parents, but I knew I didn't have much time. It would be better for Mildred and Daniel if I were already gone when the call came in.

I studied the train schedules I'd collected carefully, looking over the newspaper clippings Rachel had given me, and formed my plan. I spent the day with Mildred in her garden, helping weed and tie back the tomatoes. Both of us savored the time together, realizing that it was probably the last time we'd see each other. That night at dinner, I asked Daniel if he could drive me to the station the next day. I told him that there was a morning train back to Chicago I wanted to take, that would allow me to connect to a train heading for Idaho. I left the newspaper cutting for the teaching position in Coeur d'Alene on the floor by my bed, as though it had accidentally dropped. If Daniel had second thoughts about keeping my secret and gave my father my destination, that's what he'd tell him.

Mildred was hugging me farewell the next morning when the phone rang and my eyes widened. She answered, shooing Daniel and I out the door. As I crossed the threshold with my suitcase I heard her say, "Yes, Aunt Evelyn, she was here, but she's already left. No she didn't say, exactly. Somewhere out west." She blew me a kiss as the door closed.

Daniel was very quiet on the way to the station, and I knew he was less comfortable than his wife with lying to my parents. As he dropped me off, he wished me luck, offering to go in with me to purchase my ticket. I didn't trust his motives and told him I'd be fine. When I bought my ticket I made a point of only asking to go as far as Chicago. I'd transfer there, and be untraceable, even if Daniel did come in and ask the stationmaster for my destination.

When I reached Chicago, I moved though the crowds to the large ladies' room. I exchanged my sweater for a jacket and removed my wedding ring, placing it in my tin to pawn later. I took the scissors that Rachel had packed for me and cut my hair to shoulder length — not quite brave enough to don the fashionable bob — receiving disapproving scowls from two older women powdering their noses. Then I tucked my hair into the felt cloche, and left the ladies room feeling like a new woman.

When I reached the ticket counter, I asked for the time for the train to Idaho, and then quietly purchased a ticket north, to a town in Wisconsin so far north it may as well have been in another country. And like all emigrants, I hoped the far off shores of that distant, exotic land would be full of promise, and my troubles would not follow me there.

Ashland, Wisconsin, it turned out, was not particularly exotic. There were docks, a hospital, and a small university. There were railroads for transporting the ore mined nearby, and mills for processing the lumber harvested from the surrounding forests. There were fewer farms than I was used to in Ohio, but there were hay fields and people on the outskirts of town raised cattle, sheep and horses. It was large enough that a newcomer was not of any particular interest, but small enough that I could find a niche of friendly people by identifying myself as a widow and a teacher. In other words, it was perfect.

Mrs. Brighton, the superintendent at the local school, hired me almost immediately when I applied. I told her I was a pregnant widow of a war veteran and had experience teaching small children. Rachel's letter helped, as did the fact they were down two teachers, both of whom had moved south after their husbands returned from war.

She leaned over her desk to shake my hand. "Welcome aboard, Mrs. Carmichael!"

"Esme," I said smiling. "Please, call me Esme."

She arranged a meeting for me with a woman who ran a boarding house. Her tenants were all women, either single or widows, working in the world. Some of us were teachers, a few were nurses, and two worked as operators for the telephone company. My new home consisted of a studio room with a small kitchenette and table for two. There was a radiator that took the chill off the air in the autumn, and a window that opened wide enough that I could get out onto the fire escape for fresh air in the summer. But I kept it shut and locked, knowing that if I could get out on the fire escape, others would be able to get in.

The day I moved in, three of my neighbors brought me a potted geranium that brightened my little table considerably. I made tea in a metal pot and they each brought a mug over so we could socialize, though I was careful to say as little about myself as possible. I avoided answering any questions on where I was from, siblings, husband, or the war.

Every night I locked the door, shut off the lights, and spent hours trying to make myself sleep. Every day, when I walked the neighborhood sidewalks I scanned faces, fearing I would see _his_ or my father's come to take me back. But the faces were all strangers, and most seemed kind.

It was easier once school started, and I could think and talk about teaching. My students were not as desperate or appreciative as they'd been in the Hospitality House, but they were still sweet and curious. Most had been touched by the war in some form or another. They were respectful and I taught every subject in my third-grade classroom, but often incorporated art into the lessons on topics like math or science, to help make it relatable.

And over time I became less fearful, and I began to make…if not friends, exactly, amiable acquaintances. By the end of October I was clearly showing, and the girls in the boarding house surprised me again with a second-hand cradle, which they had cleaned and repainted beautifully. When they left, I put Rachel's blanket in it, wishing again that I could write to her and tell her how I was faring. I tried to sketch her from memory, so I could have a picture of her on the table by my bed, but it didn't quite look like her. Without her there, I couldn't capture the warmth in her eyes or the humor in the curve of her lips.

I missed her terribly.

"Good morning, Esme," called my neighbor on a brisk November morning. "I've made something for that wee babe of yours."

"Mrs. O'Daire. Good morning. How's your hip?"

"Fine, fine, m'dear," she said as she reached into her purse, and we both continued walking down the hall to the stairs. "It's going to be cold when your wee one is born, so I knitted a hat." She placed the soft white cap in my hand, and I was struck once again by the fact that my child was really coming. And soon. Preparations needed to be made. The little cap was precious, with small pink flowers embroidered around the rim.

"Pink?" I asked, eying her affectionately as we walked.

"Well," she began, with the authority of an Old Wife, "just look how high you're carrying, dear. I'd bet a week's wages that she's a girl."

I looked down, smoothing my hand over my blouse so the bump was more defined, trying to see what she saw.

"You can't tell from that angle, dear," she said laughing. "Do you have names picked out?"

"If it really is a girl, then yes. There's only one name. If it's a boy… I have no idea."

She looked up at me, confused, as we made it to the front door and out into the cool weather. "You wouldn't be naming him for his lost daddy, then?"

Oh, that had been a mistake. Mrs. O'Daire was an astute woman. "Ah, no," I said, recovering. "They didn't believe in taking family names in my late husband's family."

"Ah," she said knowingly. "That's a good policy, actually. My own family is overrun with Johnnys and Billys. Best for him to have his own name."

I nodded and wished her a good day as we parted, she walking toward the telephone company and I walking toward the school.

As time went on my hope swelled, even as my belly did. If Charles or my parents were looking for me, I was hoping by now they'd given up; any trails they could have chased would have long since gone cold. I was more and more confident that everything would be fine: worrying less about the past, preparing for the future. My earnings as a teacher were allowing me to afford the rooms easily, and I began to knit for my child at night, so that she would be warm after her winter birth. Christmas came and my students gave me little hand-made gifts to decorate the baby's corner of my room with: pictures depicting nursery rhymes and fairy tales. The boarding house cleared out — many of the girls went home to their families for the holiday — but the rest of us made communal meals together, and were thankful for our mutual support and companionship.

January was bitter, and I walked to the hospital through the snow.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Carmichael?" the doctor asked after taking my blood pressure and temperature.

"I'm having some pains… I think it's too early to be labor, but I thought I'd better see a doctor to make sure."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "First time mothers often worry over nothing, but I suppose it's better to be safe than sorry. Trust me, when you are in labor, you won't mistake it for anything else."

He placed his hands on my belly, and I flinched. The condescension was gone from his face in a flash. "Did that hurt?" he asked.

"No. No, it's fine. Sorry." I nodded, encouraging him to try again.

He was much slower and gentler this time, pressing firmly in a few places, and then listening with a stethoscope.

"False labor," he declared softly. "I don't think there is anything to be concerned about, but come back if you have pain that feels worse than this. You don't have much longer to go, but we don't want your child coming early in this cold. Try to stay off your feet if you can."

I gave a small laugh. I wasn't teaching at the school this term, but I was still tutoring. Staying off my feet seemed impossible. "I'll try," I promised, knowing that it was a fairly empty one.

Mrs. O'Daire was sitting with me a week later when my water broke. She got me a cab, telling me not to worry; she would have my room mopped and ready before I brought my wee one home.

And I was back in the hospital, praying that _this_ was real labor, because if it got worse than this, I didn't know how I'd survive. Nurses were wiping my brow and bringing snow in from outside for me to suck on as white-hot lightning shot down my spine, and my body tried to tear itself apart. It was the worst pain I'd ever felt, which was ironic, considering this was an act of love, while all the other pain had been anything but. And so I concentrated on the love. My child might not have been conceived in love, but she would be born into love. Born into a home of love and joy, even if it were only two rooms. She would be cherished and strong. I would teach her everything I knew about love, and hope, and how the kindness and faith of a single person can make all the difference in the world. How it can change a life. How it can make you strong, even when you're alone, to know you are loved like that. I hoped she'd have warm brown eyes. I hoped she'd have an easy laugh and a straight back and kindness that seemed to glow from her very skin. I hoped I could love her enough that she _never_ doubted it, or her worth.

It was the love I focused on though the searing pain and the pants and grunts, though the _endless_ reminders to push and breathe, through the noise and too-bright light until finally, empty and exhausted, I heard a faint cry.

I closed my eyes and heard the nurses moving around with my baby, washing and measuring and wrapping her in soft cloth as the doctor told me to start pushing again. My ears were buzzing with the effort of passing the afterbirth, and finally, finally, shaky and washed and empty, I was settled back against clean pillows and given my child by the nurse, who helped get the little mouth attached to my breast.

We were silent as we watched that little mouth move tentatively. I heard the nurse's voice: "Do you have a name?"

"Rachel," I said.

She let out a small laugh. "Mrs. Carmichael, your baby is a boy. You have a son."

"A boy?" I asked, incredulous. I'd had a _boy_ inside me all that time? I laughed at the thought. I'd been so focused on all the women in my life; I'd never seriously considered the idea that I might have a boy.

"Do you have a name chosen for a boy?" She was smiling kindly, clearly amused by my confusion and exhaustion.

I shook my head, stroking his little cheek and rubbing my fingers over his fine hair. He opened his eyes, not quite focusing, but looking toward my face. His eyes were midnight blue, like so many newborns, and he scrunched his forehead up to look at me, so trusting and helpless.

What name could I give a boy? I couldn't name him for my father, or his father. What name would act as a talisman, to make him strong and kind and not selfish or uncaring? There was only one man who had ever inspired any faith or trust in me, and I didn't even know his Christian name, which was surely not Doctor, after all. I nearly giggled at the thought, and the nurse looked on curiously. The surname was not quite right, either, but…

"Colin," I said finally. "I'll call him Colin. Colin Richard," I added, thinking the middle name sounded at least a bit like Rachel.

"Colin Richard Carmichael," the nurse repeated, smiling. "It has a nice ring to it." And it did to me, too. My son would be named after the two people who had given me hope and reason to believe in myself. The two people who had really seemed to _see_ me, despite the distractions of the world.

"Welcome, Colin. I've been waiting for you for a very long time."

Hope turned to fear eight hours later when I awoke to find Colin wheezing. The nurses came in and applied a foul smelling ointment that irritated the skin on his chest and made him cry. I rocked and nursed him, sang and soothed. But he was hot… so hot. How could something so small generate so much heat? It seemed impossible.

The doctor came and made a paste of aspirin, sugar, and water. He showed me how to dab my finger in it and me put it in Colin's mouth so he would suck the medicine from my finger as if he were sucking at the breast. Colin didn't like the taste, but I tried for hours to get him to swallow some, wondering if willow bark tea wouldn't be more palatable to him. The nurses showed me how to rub his skin with alcohol to cool him, but he was still red and hot and his soft skin became dry.

We fed him bottles of water, trying to rehydrate him, trying to get even very dilute aspirin into his system. He was inconsolable. I finally settled for nursing him and wiping his little brow with a wet washcloth. Dread was chilling my heart, but I would not stop, even as the nurses and doctor stood in the corner whispering and frowning, even when his little fists grew too weak to rail against my efforts.

I told him I loved him; I told him his Aunt Rachel loved him. I told him the story of the mysterious doctor who had set my leg and told me I could be an artist and to not sell myself short for all my humble beginnings. I told him we could do anything, be anything, if we only believed in ourselves and our love. I told him he was cherished, and that I would love him forever if he would _just fight_. Just fight this infection. Just have faith that we could be happy and healthy and love each other.

_Don't give up, Colin. You are loved…you are loved._

His breaths grew slower and more shallow.

_Fight. Fight for love and life. Please, Colin. You are strong. We'll be strong. Fight, please._

And I rocked him endlessly, for hours, for days, soothing and praying and trying not to lose hope myself. His little body was no longer hot and no longer red, but it was listless.

He stopped feeding in the middle of the second day of his life, and my breasts felt like they would burst. Just like my heart…

The doctors and nurses stopped trying. I could tell when the doctor's face turned grim. Colin was already dead, as far as he was concerned. He was just waiting for the time to put on the death certificate.

I hated him.

I pleaded with a deity I'd long since abandoned. Bargained and promised and prayed. And as I rocked Colin… my beautiful, irreplaceable boy… he grew grey. His lips, perfect little cupid's bows, turned blue. He stopped opening his eyes.

And then I stopped rocking and stopped pleading. I sat perfectly still, holding my beautiful boy and apologizing.

_I'm sorry I didn't make you strong enough. I'm sorry I didn't love you enough. I'm sorry I brought you to this cold place to be born in the dead of winter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…_

And then I stopped doing anything but count his breaths, each more shallow than the last. Four hundred and sixty four. And then no more, and my wail rose to the ceiling, and the nurses tried to take him from me, but finally left me clutching a small blue bundle, sobbing. There was not enough air in the world.

Eventually, I let them take him. Eventually they told me I had to leave, and I dressed and returned to my rooms, where cheerful drawings by children depicting Humpty Dumpty mocked me, and soft yellow blankets promised comfort I knew to be _impossible._

And those items that should have welcomed my child home were the only things I saw in color. The rest of the world was grey. Or black, like the color of my clothing and that of my friends as we stood in the grey snow and watched a ridiculously small coffin descend into the earth. I didn't even know whose arms were trying to comfort me. No touch reached me. The fog of grief was so thick I could make out nothing but the sharp edge of my pain, like a razor, slicing through me over and over.

People brought over potpies and casseroles, knowing I wouldn't eat if they didn't watch me do it. They helped me pack away the pictures and the blankets, removed the cradle, and took the little knitted clothing that he'd never worn. My rooms looked like they belonged to a stranger.

My dreams were grey tinged with blue, and I could only hear shallow rasping breaths growing slower and slower…

The wind sounded like those breaths as I stood at the top of the cliff, looking over the grey rocks to the grey clouds on the horizon, and the grey mist that clung to the trees below and was melting the snow as I watched. I didn't even remember the walk that brought me here, though I could remember seeing this bluff from town. I heard a train whistle far below. I looked down and noticed red lines on my arms. Bloody scratches where limbs and brambles had tried to keep me from my destination — the first color I'd truly seen in the heavy weeks that had followed Colin's death. But now I was not heavy. Now the wind clutched and grabbed at me, just as it had when I sat in a tree all those years ago, watching purple clouds approach that seemed to promise something splendid. I closed my eyes against the quickly approaching rocks, imagining purple clouds and hoping that now, finally, something splendid might be waiting.

And the world exploded in red and gold. And then black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esme's story continues in Chapter 17 of Prelude in C, which is much less awful than this was.


End file.
